Stasia Ward Kehoe

“Does it matter that people and thingsHave words,Have names?If not,Why read any book?A litany of useless lettersDetached from bone, muscle.Or are words the only things that make the muscle, bone, memory, movement,PersonReal?”

“It is strange to hear my wordsRead back to me.I don't think I wrote themTo have them ever leave the page.I think I only writeWhat happens across my brainWhen my feet are too weary To dance anymore.”

“Her body disappears like my voiceWhen I look too closely in the mirrorWithout the pages of a notebook, a penTo save me.”

“Is truth hereIn the ugly unseemliness?The graceless momentsBefore and afterEyes are watching?In the unballerinaThe unperformed?”

“I hover over myselfWatching.Mind and body separated,Each in controlAs though there are two puppeteersWorking the strings of my marionette self.”

“It seems to me that every dayIs an audition.”

“Am I lonelier nowThan when my sad imaginationHad him disappear?Heart torn,Loosing tiny dropletsOf sorrowNo tape can measureNo needle can mend.”

“Do I dare ask him for what I want,As if I knew it,Could find it on some pageIn some chapterIn some book?”

“Are we alikeIn that in-betweenness?Can he see,When I smile my blue eyes backAt his brown ones,The country-city-woman-girlDancer, studentBewilderedUnbelongingYearning?”

“What was true and solid begins to slide, dissolve.Your thoughts unravel faster than a satin ribbonWhose edge hasn't been burnedUntil you sit amidst a tangle of limp, pink threads,Unable to reasonAt all.”

“Now, the edges of these memories sharpen.I see the cracks in the studio floor beneath her feet,The lack of turnout in her fifth position.”

“Wish my life were inside a bookSo I could turn to the ending,See if it is a love storyOr a gothic disaster.”

“I am pretty sure the myth of meIs better than the reality.”

“I feel his arm Lightly Over me.He takes one of my outstretched hands.Draws it beneath my stomach."One more time..."This is not sex,Not friendship. SomethingStrangeSpecialIn the stillness of his breath,The waterlike way he moves.He is making a dance.We are making a dance.”