I write poetry.
IN PURSUIT OF TUTUS UNFRUMPLED
(a poem for WW)
Having abandoned the drink, she glides
like a water fowl flying close
to the glassy brim of sea-
Close but not quite ready to dive,
Not ready to puncture the surface,
Talons outstretched, unblinking eyes
on a thing that moves below, beneath.
Not yet, but close.
Alliances made on full moons
could be tossed about, stuffed in corners
of an unknown flat—where
a coffee table is dinged with shark fins, where
Barrel-aged bourbon rings are no rival to the mask of
What does the heart need, in the end?
Are the necklaces of ritual
still powerful if they sit still in
a bathroom drawer?
Or is it the body that moves
Beneath that brings sanctity to the
pews, the tent, the peasants and
Sometimes, just for fun, a tutu finds
itself around my waist. I smooth down
the crinkled lace, feeling the patterned holes,
and ask myself if I can really dance.
The wind lifts the edges of the hem
and a lean calf flexes in the chill
And I know I may have outlasted the child
But never, ever the dream.