American Life in Poetry

Remember those Degas paintings of the ballet dancers? Here is a similar figure study, in muted color, but in this instance made of words, not pigment.

As this poem by David Tucker closes, I can feel myself holding my breath, as if to help the dancer hold her position.

The Dancer

Class is over, the teacher

and the pianist gone,

but one dancer

in a pale blue

leotard stays

to practice alone without music,

turning grand jetes

through the haze of late afternoon.

Her eyes are focused

on the balancing point

no one else sees

as she spins in this quiet

made of mirrors and light –

a blue rose on a nail –

then stops and lifts

her arms in an oval pause

and leans out

a little more, a little more,

there, in slow motion

upon the air.