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

Un-knowing.

The question

What does the heart need, in the end?

Lingers on

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

Cake-eaters alike?

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.