by Luigi Coppola

My Mother Was a Dancer and She Never Looked Back

and why would you when up ahead is vermilion,gold, when the dress you wear is billowedby poise, hemmed with every minuteof every hour you practised, each step a stepforward, each twirl gathers momentumfor the next movement, the soles of feetpaparallel, straight, laced, hair tied tight, draped downa shoulder, taut in tense air where hopes springup like sped-up film, seed to flower in secondsand that is how fast life feels—if you turn your headfor a moment you’ve missed it, left wonderingwhere has my partner gone, where is the audience,who has been judging me this whole time?