for Ayesha Muhammed

 

When I see the dancers

begin to move, not one of them past

eleventh grade, and I see

 

the bearded youngster with his tape

of numbered sounds, I think how I am moved

by the supple spears that are

 

their bodies, how their teachers,

who love them, would save them with art,

how that overworked parachute

 

under which they are dancing

to drums much louder than they need to be,

will never be broad enough,

 

or strong enough, and how I

love them too, though I raise my hands

and only clap,

 

which is not enough either.

 

 

This poem first appeared in Two Seasons (Muse Pie, 1993).

Used here with the author’s permission.