Naked Ballerinas in Flight: Dream of a Dancer in Six Acts
I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself.

                                                                                                -Mikhail Baryshnikov

(for Natalia)

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Karlanna Lewis



1.. What the Hell was God doing?

                        Embarking at Barcelona, at a sunset palace are all the living
zombies, wings folded, feathers

                        shed like skin at midnight, but have you found
my glass slippers yet? Glass

                        ballet slippers? I just found out I’m playing

                        Cinderella, isn’t it a thrill? A fire-breathing thrill? Drop
your pants for me again until we are

                        all doing the naked Macarena. I am sure to wear
my pointe shoes for emphasis, but they giggle and dub

                        me Chewbaca. In the moment I look at my
feet, check my seatbelt in this life,

                        my life where I am not Chewbaca and my funnyman
zoot suit hasn’t developed a rusty
                        zipper, in the moment you peek--Mom, it was only
one little check, under the Christmas tree in sock-
       
                        footed pajamas—you are gone. You do not
resemble yourself in any way. So here is Houdini’s

                        make-up artist to paint our clown cheeks, so when
we go, we will still be hilarious

                        pairs of red dots floating, cheek-height, down
well-worn streets. Robert Frost was wrong, because

                        even the unworn path was still worn.


2. Sears & Discount Dance Catalogues

                        Even the top-shelf dress has been worn, so

                        what can you do? but eat Chinese
noodles with chopsticks, letting one roll

                        away under bed, to Chewy’s world, because
someone said,

                        We have to wear our goggles straight, because monkeys
are similar
                        to birds? Or at least Apes can fly.

                        I go on remembering as I stand
with my thumb up in Arizona. I ordered

                        boots but the package has not left Minnesota, and Sweetheart,
I wish I could track myself with you,


3. Back to That Checker-Box Café

                           where I am never late for my
entrance, where I make it as expected

                        yet unexpected but on the high
note of the orchestra. You are Miss

                        Mary Mack jumping so high


4. Elephants in the Sky

                        stoned teenagers in the backseat make googly
eyes like the caterpillar aliens we used to collect

                        on keychains, humbled and fumbling with the sex
of it all. We are the leaves

                        schoolgirls trip on coming back from
our café, where we can never get in. The owner

                        sweeps us away from the door with the listlessness
of a dump-truck, with the no-no-no of Young
                        Drunken Mother, when the opposite is always
true. The cavalier cannot undo my zipper, & any

                        minute now the conductor could fling open
his door and demand a rehearsal, garter

                        straps and all. No way we can
get these hooks over your large

                        legs; what did you do--eat? Every
blustery afternoon spent pining for the stage,

                        pointe shoes like sweet cinnamon buns
crackling on trays in the oven. Jellyworms

                        dance better than I do, I whine only for
Margot Fonteyn if she’s out there listening,

                        out there lying on some couch in Hell pointing
her luxurious feet. Jerry Garcia is dealing

                        seven cards and asking Margot if she
ever thought of choreographing to “Friend of the Devil,” or if

                        she ever used to walk barefoot under bridges
in London, silver bracelet catching

                        light and flesh on a boy’s hand as they stood and kissed
under the bridge, whether or not it was

                        raining, whether or not angels were watching,
tabbing this one for the books, jealous

                        of ballerinas, who are more angelic than even
angels themselves, saving records for the moment

                        every ballerina is opened only the gate


5. Of Hell. The Drink Is on the House

                        or my tab. The bartender has grown tired of my stories.
I’ve bankrupted all my credit on a shore

                        outside Moscow, where the tutu-ed lady tossed
my basket of eggs out the window and asked
                        Prince Charming if he’d like to make love


6. And Could We Please Do It Now

                        because if we put all our effort into making
her a joke I’d like her punchline to be like lava

                        dripping over the combs of greasy-haired men
glinting in the back row, until the magma

                        oozes their hands out of their pockets
cursing the final pirouette. Margot’s doing

                        the Monster Mash and she gives me the signal
to turn into a tomato, or else you must roll

                        me up into gerbil food, but could we scratch
everything, and make me a rose you hand

                        to the prima? What is Cinderella but a glorified
Maid? And I am no good at cleaning.



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