The Ballet

You have never seen a dance
until you have seen my mother orchestrate the ballet,
sending dancers into their grand leaps,
bounding from one leg to another;
it would bring tears to your eyes
if you could witness it—

but there was a strangeness in her work,
the way she seemed to dedicate herself,
the way she practiced every day, for years,
and only when there was no audience—

but even so, her grueling practice sessions would truly amaze you,
how delicately the dancers touched the ground
almost imperceptibly alight crimson dancer’s legs
as though they had the innocence of angels, lifting them,
as though they might sprout wings,
as though they were trying wholeheartedly to fly away.

Her dancers were children,
like the great children’s choirs use children
except my mother’s dancers would sing
more profoundly, more shrill, more intensely than any others.

Their crescendos would fill a concert hall,
the way an amplified electric guitar can pierce your body,
the way you can feel it inside, clawing at you from a block away,
the way overpowering music turns on you,
forcing you to cover your ears.

It was the kind of magical performance
that could only be achieved by beating the dancers
into nothing less than a numb confusion.

My mother, “The Great Conductor,” wielding her clothes hanger batons
orchestrated her magical ballets
—when there was no audience.