One word and we pause,
Hanging suspended in space.
Limbs the very picture of elegant restraint.
Two heartbeats before release.
The tension is shattered.
Feet once more on the ground.
Three bodies moving together,
En pointe, flying as one.
Somewhere, I became the tulle of my skirt.
Four limbs is all we have.
Our limbs and our hearts,
And the dance already owns them.
Five positions we move through,
Having already etched them
On the pillars of our memory ages ago.
Six minutes the music endures
And we along with it,
Transfixed in time by tradition and passion.
Seven criticisms we each weather,
Holding our breath,
Grace comes with a hefty price.
Eight beats and we move once more
-Folding and unfolding-
Balanced on a knife's edge, we can breathe again.
"The aim of every artist is to arrest motion." -William Faulkner. Strangely enough, this poem was conceived while I watched a friend demonstrate tricks with a butterfly knife.
