They say that there is a rhythm
to your tears.
So curiously, I examined my own,
The ones that came during the showcase of my
parent’s performance.
The dripping essence rained with the delicate grace
of a pianist’s fingers.
The music that my mother danced to.
Then, when she is held for guided pirouettes
she loses her balance.
The snap of her graceful bones,
echoes the crash of my father’s grand entrance.
His fists spinning off tempo to the slow
thundering of the orchestra.
The shattered wood of my mother’s prized
swan carving underneath his steps.
Wooden corps de ballet gather
around my mother during her solo;
splinters falling into a finished pose,
directing attention to my mother’s dying swan.
My father joins my mother in their usual
midnight pas de deux,
assuming I’m sleeping backstage.
The theater seats are presumably empty,
for the dress rehearsal.
The last night before the final dance
of pain and torment.
How long can one dance on a broken stage
before they gain a permanent life-changing injury?
I wouldn’t miss their finale of artistry for the world.
The fury of my mother rises on her pointe shoes.
Her movements channel my father’s
coaxing his own loneliness into an arabesque.
The pose reflects his split decision;
Stay standing on the stage, or find a new place to dance.
One leg on, one leg off.
Their pas de deux was perfectly choreographed
by empty promises,
infidelity, and abandonment.
Towards the end,
Father’s double tours become uncoordinated,
Mother’s limbs shaking with her plie.
Grace and dignity can be quick cover ups for pain;
His eyes take a knee,
holding her tears in a penche.
Father used to catch mother in her
grand jete.
A spiralling leap of faith in their
partnership.
His arms open wide for her to try again.
Today,
he dropped her.
Now she will never dance again.
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