Fuck that shit and Dance

I’m kissing my new pointe shoes

Before and after each secret session —

Pearlescent winged sandals

That make my feet sing.

It’s late fall 2006 —

My last one before going

Across the ocean, forever.

Personal fallout, hopes for the future.

Nothing left to live for

Where I used to be

Except for narrow Gothic windows of opportunity

To write, make art and Dance.

I was done. My soul was dying,

Running on ICU of forbidden sessions

Filled with DIY happiness,

In the midst of chronic WTFs.

How could old dreams die?

Another story. Sadly they did.

With every fiber of my being

I knew I had to get out.

So I placed my expectations on that move

In pursuit of my American Dream,

And on this pair of pointe shoes

To carry me, ribbons tight around my heart.

How could I know my Dream

Would become a nightmare?

I had put out my best effort,

And life had to give its best to me.

How could I know the only show

I’d perform in those precious slippers

Would be videotaped so poorly

By betraying uncaring hands?

How could I know I would not have time to practice,

Only once in a blue moon, and then

My shoes would be damaged in storage

And lost in the fire?

When I look back on those times of high hopes

They feel better than reality

Which had failed me.

And that’s the one we have. Eeeek.

I had bought a new pair

With limited funds provided by

The transitional housing for the homeless

As my Christmas present.

My old life was shed,

My dreams shattered,

Leaving me half-dead,

In need of magic.

I found it in the same things:

Writing, art, Dance.

The strength came through good music

And kindness of my friends.

Back on my feet — but new pointe shoes

Were tough to wear. Pretty yet the cheapest,

They made my feet damn hurt.

My inspiration took a dip... again.

...A few days ago

I took them out

And tried them on, with care.

Still ouch! — but I picked up The Feeling.

The one of empowerment,

Of being weightless even if I’m not

Standing on my tiptoes;

The one of self-respect familiar to ballerinas.

I love That Feeling. For the sake of it

I’m wearing them as often as I can,

Just to break in... or not, it doesn’t matter.

To really dance I will need a new pair.

For now, all that matters is the magic,

The stubborn hope, alive no matter what.

I must be worse than during my first sessions —

But point of balance is achieved

If I give zero fucks.

I’m looking back

On all those Hiroshimas

And fearing more to come;

I feel like crying over losses

But on the other hand...

Recalling being told by my Dance teacher

That I wasn’t ready for pointe shoes

But getting them to practice anyway,

I know I survive by breaking rules.

And what am I expecting these days? Nothing.

Each Dance can be the last,

I do my best,

Reclaiming pieces of fragmented past

With each kiss of my shoes.

November 13, 2021.

N.B.