The Dancer You Wish You Were (She Was) Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

[for Suzanne Farrell]

she breaks into flowers when she turns
in tulle of white violet
and Dance itself seems

spun from her sometimes
as if it were honied Spring, only.
it's the arc of white nights, I

softly cried; it's more than gravity defied:
the soul, the soul countering grief
with every instep

a rose
that blossoms, where
no one knows

except if you're the one
turning into it...


mary angela douglas 20 november 2015