For Jenna (Age 8)
Like at your mom's and
the mall,
right in the middle
of the museum,
sporting Maya Studded Sandals
and pink toenail polish,
you swing up your arms and
shuffle yourself into fifth position,
then whip out haphazardly
Pique turns across the room,
tripping over a bench
and bump into the security guard –
turns you taught yourself
viewing You-Tube
tutorials. Your
cheeks glow a rosy hue,
embarrassed, looking up
at the man towering over you.
Bystanders encourage
you on, but catching your
breath, you stand by my side,
inching closer to Degas’
young delicate dancers.
That’s me, you blurt out,
rising up as high as you can
on the bottom-front of your
sandals,
the balls of your toes,
bending your elbows,
mimicking the ballerina on pointe
exhibiting pink roses fastened to
her white bell-shaped tutu and
floral wreath headpiece.
I applaud,
clapping and whistling.
Perhaps in 140 years, there
will be a little girl prancing
about a museum, admiring an image of
you on stage, I say.
Enchanted,
you lean forward, playing
the part of the second ballerina,
placing one foot
in front of the other
with light arms simply to
italicize the dancer ‘s role in
front of her, or
is she about to steady
herself in turn out, third arabesque? you inquire.
* For Jenna O’Connor

Edgar Degas: Two Dancers on Stage