Little bytl, little mallet, hammer
steadying to bear down quick
upon the nail, the polished wood along
the length of the barre hardly belies
the place where, surely, your flat edge
bucked the rivet’s tail against the shaft.
And the dancers, you can almost see them
lay their palms for ballast as they hoist
their grand battements into the air, then
hold them there. And their arms, like brachia
of suspended trees, bend to ease sleek heads
toward the hardwood floor. What do you imagine
the afterlife to be? A brace will bind a sail
to make it taut against the wind. Outside,
the tarp of leaves disguises as its shadow;
a bird rigid in the cold clear air skims
between the currents, its sooty wings
outspread as if in annunciation.
—Luisa A. Igloria
03 02 2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.