From the Sun’s Rays

I was young, when I roamed

     the dance school’s halls in white socks,

where music lingered in the corners,

     seeping into cracks in the wood floor, to echo

to my ears as I tip-toed till tap dance began at 5:00pm.

     I was always alone in that school of ballerinas,

sliding past green lockers, freezing

     at the creaks of ghost notes raising from beaten

wood. One day, on the abandoned 4th floor

     I heard Ravel’s “Ma mère l'Oye.”  

I peeked into a practice room to see a woman

     dancing in the dark, grey sunrays streaming

through the single window to kiss her naked frame.

     Her breasts were small, but I found myself

watching her hips how her curves

     guided her through each movement

I think of her, my undressed sacrament, dancing on my bones,

     whittling my body’s history: Grand fouetté, tor jeté.

I think of me, seven years old, not knowing yet

     that in that moment I learned what it was to be a woman.

I learned what beauty was as I watched her end her dance,

     she lay on the floor and moved her hands down

her gasping body to accept a kiss from her lower self. She

     taught me how to love myself.