I’ve heard it told,
True-born writers must write
They haven’t any choice
They must write until they’re dead and cold
But the same is true of a dancer
She makes no conscious decision
Her need to dance is strong,
And will cause many a frisson
Addicted to the adrenaline,
Longing for the familiar pain in her feet
In her dreams she will dance,
And wake tangled in the sheet.
Daylight will not diffuse
This instinctive need to move
The kitchen floor she will use
To piqué to the freezer
When summer break becomes
Filled with longing and daydreams
She will take out her pointe shoes
And in the floor with her feet draw seams
Her muscles pull, stretch, ache
Merely the strong arch of her foot
Will chase away the heartache
And she’ll dance through the physical pain
To take away a dancer’s dance
Is entirely impossible
Whether in her dreams or on the kitchen floor,
She will dance.
Photo by San Francisco Ballet
The Mews 
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