Years later I saw her, leaning on the white 
lattice of a gazebo, hiding from the rain. 
There was a time when she danced to love songs 
and I envied her feet, how they pointed. 

I memorized her shoes, the way she dipped 
her toes into a wooden resin box, 
the floor just waxed, her figure walking upside-down 
beneath her, feet parting from mirror feet with each step.

It was her way. When she leapt, it took too long to land.  
Now she is rounded, fuller, and blowing smoke 
into rain falling in stripes against the sky.
She doesn't see me stare, but stubs her cigarette. 

Bless her. My feet are soaked and now I half expect 
that she will kneel and dry them with her hair.


© 2009 by Rachael Lyon. All rights reserved.