Tights

xx
Strong but skinny, or rather, skinny but strong,
I practise till the cows come home
Back in Berkshire. I’ve moved into town.
Thighs and shins start looking good in tights.
x
The days are mirrors, wall to wall
Behind barres. Margot appears in our boys’ class.
Come, she says, I need to practise
For Giselle. Have we heard correctly?
x
Yes. She beckons…me, and maybe Gus.
We take one buttock each, one hand.
We lift, that is, she flies up, into our palms.
Release the hands. She’s poised above,
x
Then she alights, she thanks us, then is gone.
Later, from the wings, I watch her swan.
Rudi threatens Von Rothbart, slips his crossbow
Just behind the flat, kneels on stage
x
To catch her in full flight. Then Rothbart’s back
On the ramp again. Crossbow, quick –
And Rudi has it but – it’s caught behind my shin
And there’s a crack, and he says ‘Shit’ in Russian
x
As I leap aside, so that he can leap onstage and aim,
Crossbow mercifully intact. Thankful for that,
I retire to the peasants’ basement dressing-room,
As Tchaikovsky culminates over the tannoy.

About anthonyhowelljournal

Poet, essayist, dancer, performance artist....
This entry was posted in Dance, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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