I think yes, I have it. The pas de valse is slow
but winning. And then she wants a pirouette
in the mix and, in the room, I’m the tornado,
dizzy and feeling like I’ve been caught
stumbling in my underwear, a dipsomaniac
on the sprung-wood floor. I know she won’t
believe me when I say it was fine at home—
there, I have about as much room to practise
as a mouse in a milk jug; quality
must count for something. It’s like following
the cracks in the pavement and not
stepping on them for fear of breaking
your mother’s back. Only the cracks are never
a pace wide anymore, and it’s my back now.