Ballet Class Seven P.M.

 
It was a small
well-lit room

Thursday nights
after college philosophy class
I went to practice at the barre

The teacher told me I was too close
to the girl in front
and took her hand and nudged me back
three steps

I was not supposed to notice
the girls’ perfect bodies

not supposed to notice their legs
taller than mine
their shoulders
more fragile, more delicate

I had known a life
of lifting heavy thoughts
meant to
break me in half

I did my plié
as instructed
I did my demi plié
like a woman half alive

My boyfriend hated it
when I went to class
because he wanted me all to himself

After college
we got married
I forgot ballet poses
invented new ways to fold myself

Now when I drive past a ballet studio
I see the girls, in a far-off window
taping the blisters on their feet
unraveling their tangled hair

*

Spending Time at the 51/50 Café

 
It’s about four a.m.
the waitress clears a spot for you
at the counter
the coffee is so hot
it scalds you
just the way you like it

The seats are the torn red
Naugahyde of your dark self
you love the familiar seams
how they remember
the creases of your body

there is a kid about fifteen
vaping and muttering
he thinks this is the first
and last time he will dine here
I give a small nod

My dead father is the short order cook
grilling a new plant-based burger
infused with cyanide and bad memories

after the waitress takes your plate
the counters are wiped clean
not a trace of your DNA is left

you think of all the times
your therapist has talked about self love
and how many times
you’ve stumbled in this ancient dance

After the dinner menu is burned,
the lights go off
everyone is leaving
the waitress taps you on the shoulder on her way out
“see you tomorrow sweetie”

outside, you call a cab
and check the date of your funeral service
it’s been moved back, another day
another day

*

Lost Dog

 
I wonder if they
ever found that dog

there were posters everywhere
for the longest time
on trees and telephone lines
on church bulletin boards

I started looking at every dog
as if it could be him
his name was Brutus or
something formidable sounding

but I wondered
if he was alone in a field
ran to another city
or adopted by another family

would he someday forget
his warm bed and favorite cheesy snacks

would he forget the cat
standing behind him as the sun fell on the house

when the posters disappeared
I wondered if they found him
or gave up

I wonder if they still
hear the jingle of his collar
or the sound of his paws
clicking across the hardwood floor

I wonder if Brutus
now answers to another name
like Duke or Jack or Dexter

In his sleep
does he dream of faraway voices
and a small hand waving in the night
coaxing him through a small gate

***

(Featured image from Pexels)