she dances with grass stains on her tights
and demands that I twist her hair at the
nape of her neck into a tornado fastened
with brown bobby pins I watch her wave
her arms like weeping willow branches as
her bit of bangs falls to the corner of her
hazel eyes so unlike anyone and her
shirt brandishes peace signs as she
arabesques at her teacher’s command
slow movements like she is under water
I gaze at her stopping time to be in
awe of this fleck of a girl straight hair
ribs protruding under her clothes she bends
to tuck a loose ballet slipper lace away
and returns to first position so delicate
her fingers meet an invisible barrier but
carry the weight in a figurative basket of
air and grace so serious is she her pink
tutu bounces as she travels to center on
the toes of her tatty slippers they
must do until recital and I wonder what
flowers to bring to her that day as she
exits at curtain one I believe her favorites
are pink carnations as long as the wrapping is
pretty she completes her dance christened
Tiny Cakes and she is grave in the last turn
clock wise and on toes she proceeds
off stage I gather my things in my mind flowers
an offering to the performer I seek her in the
dancer’s dressing room filled with mottled colors
of tulle and tiny girls just learning to twirl
