his eyes wide and blue
bulging expressively
his sweater soft
it’s cashmere and it caresses tender surfaces
bundles of it gather over time at scattered oases
they are now mine
they are now my bundles
they smell of old clothing and mildew but he still is dressed by them
he is living in them
pointe shoes pound the surface of the stage
but look increasingly elegant
like my mother
their costumes glistening and frosted by a powdery film
of glitter and artificial snow
now Bob Dylan’s punctual strings resonate in my memory
he’s telling me to keep my head forward like Steve used to do
if I don’t look back
i don’t have to say goodbye

pink satin shoes,
i've wanted,
false;
needed,
since i was six years old,
i craved the bruises and the blood,
that comes with pirouettes
the hot blisters,
bubbling with possibility,
the possible pain,
that comes,
with my first pair of pointe shows

it begins
with silky smooth fabric
like tiny cushions on her
delicate skin

she spins
her back arched ever so slightly
the curvatures of her feet
cuts through the empty air

she is swift
she is fast
she is doing what she
knows best

her fragile stability
is as light as a spider
she dances through the darkness
leading light in her path

the inaudible patter
as her feet
gracefully hit the floor
weave a tapestry

of a love unknown.

the sun
rises as
it is done

she does not remain
she is gone
her blood is a
song

sang just before the dawn.

(b.d.s.)