Every Tuesday, Thursday, you come

And every Tuesday, Thursday I dance.

And knowing you will be there, my heart beats

skips, a caged hummingbird a flutter, nest bound and lost.

So eager for your approval. I plie, pirouette, moving through

each position with such care, my feet back-to-back,

such unnatural square root of such grace,

it leaves me bending and foot bound,

my bloch shoe pas de deux, my arabesque for you.

When I tap I bring it on, a series of clicks, clacks

Such smile to your face, broad, beautiful.

These shoes, you recognize. Dance shoes, no other.

But one reason for your ardour. One reason you fell in love.

The pianist tips out Satie, draws to mournful end.

You smile regardless. Too long since I have seen you.

A flock of tu-tued dancers scurry to the back room while

you, on knees, laughingly gallantly untie

the long satin ribbons of each pinked foot,

the toes raw and aching; you rub me back to life.

How may times have you stolen such dance-shoe ribbons?

Pink and black trophies… The last, removed with your teeth

You keep them your office desk drawer, top left.

There, they rest easy beside a photograph of me;

I am black and white, and framed.

Held withing the relative safety of the frame.

All important things you keep in the top-left drawer

- a shared idiosyncrasy.

Later, alone, you lift each leg to rest on each broad shoulder,

proceed untie each ribbon of each black, patent shoes I wear home.

You tell me, “The importance of knowing when to tap, when to not.”

I am barefoot and prone.

No secrets here. I know too well the giveaway tap-tap,

the one that speaks of my arrival, departure, of marble stairs and where.

You kiss the high each foot, a kiss that travels

You say not to worry. You tell me, “It’s a ballet privee.”

This, now, intended only for two . You offer me true faith.

Amen.

image: carl johnson, toe shoes