THE DANCER

As a dancer
she could do no more
than wince
in the face of silence;
frothing
she mumbled something about
the inconsistency of feet,
how they seemed to get in the way
everytime she tried to step
in and out of spaces;
how she felt caught
by their limitation;
finally walking on her hands
all over the place
but even they, though,
presented that human flaw
that had her fall flat
on her pointed nose
that she raised
everytime it happened.
Listen, I told her, stay in bed already,
enough of this foolishness.
I did all I could--
shut off the radio, phonograph,
television, sealed all the windows--
(her body twinged
with the turning of another knob).
And she got more and more pissed-off
until I made compromises
like letting her hear a car horn
or the toilet flushing,
which would set her off into a tizzy,
piroutting around the room on her hands,
making scrambled eggs on the tips of toes,
but not quite putting it together:
finding my eggs with slippers on,
black tights around my orange juice.
It was frustrating.
USE YOUR FEET FOR WALKING GODDAMNIT,
I screamed.
But she couldn't hear me:
horns were honking,
water running, and she was doing
her body
justice.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967