Poetry is a Reluctant Dancer

Avigayil F


At times she will sway only to a tune

To rhythmic planned and practiced steps alone

She turns and sways ‘neath light of the fair moon

With pointed feet upon the rigid stone.

 

On sunny days, she runs carefree through the meadow

Bare feet slapping the dirt

Legs stinging from the rapier cuts of the long grasses.

 

On Tuesdays, she contorts herself like a modern dancer

And shuns all airy silhouettes and illusions of elongation

She pulls apart her pointe shoes at the shank

Shreds her tutus to scraps of tulle

Embraces earth and ground and blunt, inelegant things.

 

On other days, the barre stretches blank against the wall

She folds herself in a corner

Draws in her aching limbs

Refusing to be coaxed

Tonight, the studio echoes in emptiness.


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