As on all its sides a kitchen-match darts white
flickering tongues before it bursts into flame:
with the audience around her, quickened, hot,
her dance begins to flicker in the dark room.
And all at once it is completely fire.
One upward glance and she ignites her hair
and, whirling faster and faster, fans her dress
into passionate flames, till it becomes a furnace
from which, like startled rattlesnakes, the long
naked arms uncoil, aroused and clicking.
And then: as if the fire were too tight
around her body, she takes and flings it out
haughtily, with an imperious gesture,
and watches: it lies raging on the floor,
still blazing up, and the flames refuse to die---.
Till, moving with total confidence and a sweet
exultant smile, she looks up finally
and stamps it out with powerful small feet.
My Improv':
Seated, she rests, chin in hand, against the back
of a chair, legs spread--she's open to the misery
that grace gives her. On stage, she moves delicately
as branches in autumn wind, never mistaking gravity
for more than part of the performance. But now, after
another recital, the pink pastels like hues of peonies
on her tutu, leotard, and ballerina shoes bleed on the floor,
create a puddle of watercolors to contemplate. Her face
is an undefinable form among the relaxed tulle at her feet.
of a chair, legs spread--she's open to the misery
that grace gives her. On stage, she moves delicately
as branches in autumn wind, never mistaking gravity
for more than part of the performance. But now, after
another recital, the pink pastels like hues of peonies
on her tutu, leotard, and ballerina shoes bleed on the floor,
create a puddle of watercolors to contemplate. Her face
is an undefinable form among the relaxed tulle at her feet.
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