Insipid and exhausting
The dry heat forced every pore
To work overtime
Bead after bead
And while I sweat…
Pirouette and cabriole’s
Were performed in dark cavernous rooms
Leftovers of an art deco panache
In the deep back seats
Of a late model V8 town car
We would travel everyday
An entire year
As she would spin on her toes and sauté
We distinctly felt each moment
Each tick of the clock
I categorized it as a scourge
But while she practiced the art
Of dancing in opulent Renaissance courts
I found a world unlike my own
While she worked on technique and precision
I crafted my existence
The beginning of a slow recognition
Of man’s fallibility
The yellow flowered vines clung
To chain link fences that were in need of repair
And as we sat parked between white lines
We could hear the work of dancers
Leaping in the air
Landing with a thud
Muffled instruction
Heard through the back door
But we couldn’t stay behind the building
Hiding out all year
Imagination only went so far
So we ventured out
We travelled to a small lake
Which rose out of the concrete jungle
Surrounded by neighborhoods older
Than my grandparents
Birds swooped low and fast across the water
And I would search the grass
For anything I could use as bait
On the end of my homemade pole
Other times
We needed a place to retreat from the heat
Relief came in the form of
Cold dry air
Drying sweaty hair
Rooms full of books
That smelled of aging paper
Where murders happened
Ghosts haunted castles
And history fell into my lap
In the forms of stories about war and famine
Earthquakes and disease
I imagine though, for my mother
It was a particular form of torment as well
Her pores also working overtime
Keeping the energy of animals contained
Long drives that wasted precious fuel
Tanks filled that took money
Money that probably had better uses
In a budget that couldn’t have been tighter
But I think she also was hoping
That the memories
Would indeed be clever
Revealing its inner complexity
When the time was right
Here I was removed
From the countryside that surrounded the sprawling city
This was a world where men slept on sidewalks
Possessions cinched in plastic sacks
With touches of hysteria
Talking to those that were no longer
Or never were
This was a world where buses drove by
Carrying the tired eyes
Of those who rose at dawn
And slept after dusk
Destined to work until their last dying breath
For me it was a brief moment
In an entire life
For others the frustration of commuting
Battling the heat
And having barely a budget to live off of
Was not merely just a yearlong endeavor
A result of a dance scholarship
It was their life
That year
I learned how to love a city
Outside my own neighborhood
About mothers who sacrifice
For their children
And the destitute that struggle
With no education or healthcare
I saw the elegance and pliancy
Of motion
All around me
With the grace
Of a ballerina
Expertly performing demanding choreography
We were all dancers
Learning our parts
For better or for worse
And even if I was
Lacking in acute awareness
Absorbed in my own dimension of space and time
I was learning
I still pass the old building
From time to time
But I only think of stifling heat and long car rides
Just briefly
Before a smile creeps slowly across my lips
Thankful for insight
When Power Consumes, Poetry Cleanses... 