The danseur, himself 

a glissando 

glides toward 

the deft display of 

made-up grace 

that is the coryphée. 

He leaps to every key. 

Timpani thrum 

as he gathers his weight, 

propels it in air  

and holds there, a fermata 

above his own jeté; 

I too, hold my breath —

half a century gone by, 

the dancers ever young, 

but not I, not I — until 

he lands, intact 

and I let myself exhale 

clapping, as he steps 

to lift her high in this 

mauve and sequined 

moment of ballet, 

nearing an end which 

disbelief suspends

 

(This poem is published in the November, 2022 issue of Bourgeon)