The wine-dark velvet cloak of the prima
ballerina (it had to be she!) sweeps
over her lathe-turned calf when she lifts her
slippered, alabaster foot—arched and pointed—
into the black cab in the rain-glossed alley
adjoining the theater—as, hand gripped
by mother’s, you are swept along
with the exiting crowds—and the black door
shuts on that glimpse the years hurry you
away from towards the downward plunge,
grit gusting around your thickened ankles,
and the hot breath of the subway,
merely home and home and home.
Judy Kronenfeld is the author of four full-length books of poetry, and longing to get the fifth one, now making the rounds, out into the world.