the body ballet, a bop.
i sit upright in my bed under spring sunrise.
say the daily prayer that this body’s choreography;
with all its black and arabesque;
with all its queer and assemblé;
does not send me tumbling to the earth
or into the orchestra pit of an early casket. first position.
i was cast in this role but no one taught me how to dance.
the curtain rises on me at a breakfast table. voices in the house say “black first.” développé.
my black body slouches into the chair.
eats the bacon. the eggs. the slurs. the chocolate jokes.
devours both the ripe and the rotten attention.
my queer body has been dining in the wings for years. echappé.
licks the grease from the plate before it disappears backstage.
is told to call this empty stomach intermission so that the principal can breathe.
i stand en pointe between them, suspended animation. second position.
i was cast in this role but no one taught me how to dance.
and here we are. act after act. hunger after hungry. penché.
these bodies with their / my fingers gripping shoulders and silverware.
i quiver on the barre between them as the sun spotlight moves.
does the audience know what it is to long for the decrescendo into silence?
what to call the movement of pouring their / my blood from a gravy boat?
the season of rebirth? horace fletcher? a phoenix with broken wings? third position?
i was cast in this role but no one taught me how to dance.