Of the over 5,000 numbers in the English language, it is the number 14 alone that has come to hold a special place in my heart. I'm not a superstitious woman, or a woman at all for that matter. I am ... [+]
Kilmeny MacMichael writes from a small town in western Canada's Okanagan valley. With over two dozen short publications, including with Cirque and Arachne Press, she is happy to appear again through Short Édition. "Madacamia" is in Short Circuit #09, Short Édition's quarterly review.
At first, it seemed a movement of
spontaneous joy;
a pause,
a stretch of arms and hands,
a bending,
then
quick steps along the hardwood floor
and a glide
A purposeful turn, pause
and then back
step and slide,
turn, pause, again;
slide step
faster steps, longer, more assured,
slide steps, again
Gaining speed and strength,
quick steps, glides,
socks and polish
gathering glad
In quiet, in merciful twilight,
concentration in feet,
a flash of teeth, a smile?
The one who watches wonders,
"Is there music I cannot hear?"
Quick steps and long glides,
tilting turns;
small, precious exuberances
back, forth, again, again
again
A dancer who does not know
the one who watches is there,
thinking, at last, even just
for this moment, they are blithe
Yet, while they watch,
exaggerated, playful grace becomes
something faster, harder;
anger grows in stretching fingers,
each run inclines more ferocious,
each glide demands more
and each
stops short of desire
The dancer throws against
the friction of the feet,
the resistance of the floor,
each run and slide
protest
wordless unmet plea
Over and over
the watcher's dread does not know
what to do
stay silent, go, offer comfort or no
at first it seemed a movement of joy
at first it was
Now the fathomless desperation wells
in their love
the dancer's rising tears clear
in the way they twist
precariously
against the dark
A pause
a stretch of arms and hands
a bending then
quick steps along the hardwood floor.
spontaneous joy;
a pause,
a stretch of arms and hands,
a bending,
then
quick steps along the hardwood floor
and a glide
A purposeful turn, pause
and then back
step and slide,
turn, pause, again;
slide step
faster steps, longer, more assured,
slide steps, again
Gaining speed and strength,
quick steps, glides,
socks and polish
gathering glad
In quiet, in merciful twilight,
concentration in feet,
a flash of teeth, a smile?
The one who watches wonders,
"Is there music I cannot hear?"
Quick steps and long glides,
tilting turns;
small, precious exuberances
back, forth, again, again
again
A dancer who does not know
the one who watches is there,
thinking, at last, even just
for this moment, they are blithe
Yet, while they watch,
exaggerated, playful grace becomes
something faster, harder;
anger grows in stretching fingers,
each run inclines more ferocious,
each glide demands more
and each
stops short of desire
The dancer throws against
the friction of the feet,
the resistance of the floor,
each run and slide
protest
wordless unmet plea
Over and over
the watcher's dread does not know
what to do
stay silent, go, offer comfort or no
at first it seemed a movement of joy
at first it was
Now the fathomless desperation wells
in their love
the dancer's rising tears clear
in the way they twist
precariously
against the dark
A pause
a stretch of arms and hands
a bending then
quick steps along the hardwood floor.