The Little Girl Dances

I am flying on my feet
from another rehearsal, a rehearsal where,
as has become unwelcome tradition,
my balance sucked and
we ran the piece and
it wasn’t my best.

I am flying on my feet
Each foot a slooping appendage
sulking and dropping from legs in shame
I can feel my breath up high in my chest
Near grunts of disappointment escape
my throat, gruff and quiet so as not to be noticed.
I am flying on my feet, my wings only propelled
by these low, puffing mumbles of how I fell
short. I’ve come to know them as breathing and this,
the life of a dance. My wings arc from tense shoulders,
ferocious and dark like grey storm clouds.

I am flying on my feet
and I halt.
I pause my flight
at the sight of
A tiny chocolate brown girl
dancing on the sidewalk.
Her curls free and worn frizzy
from a day of play.
On her feet are bright pink shoes
with sequins lining the curve
of her toes. Her toes which, with
only the force of pure life
launch her body from the pavement.
Life, within her, uninhibited.

Not coached and corrected
or tight and taught.
Unadulterated by shame, fear, comparison, or memory.

She dances.
Oh! The little girl dances!

Her shimmering shoes hop from
one square section of sidewalk
to another
and again
every one a different stage, a different fantasy
each step perfectly placed and planted
into the solid ground beneath her,
as her limbs rise up to comb the clouds.
Two oppositional forces
riding the rhythm of her
playful hopscotch dance.
The leaves on the ground skip around and whistle
to her perfect tune.

balanced.
She is balanced and at her best.

Oh! She is dancing!
The little girl dances.
All of us little girls, we dance.
I did, just like her.

The feathers of my tired wings
blow, catching the wind of her
joyous twirls and my heart jumps
out to her, sensing the love it used to know so well.

Was that the last time
I danced?
Is that where I left my balance?
My best?