The next poem is from a painting by Degas.
And in this painting, there's a woman whom we don't know,
she's dressed in black, and right next to her
we figure is probably either her daughter, holding her foot,
since dance is so excruciating on the ankles and toes.
There's three French words, one, two, and three.
And I'm not very good at French, so if it sounds funny,
that's the way it goes.
I can't help myself.
In the Sitting Room of the Opera.
In the sitting room of the opera,
a young girl holds her left ankle,
dreams of Parisian fountains while lifted
above the prince's head, her arms held out and waiting.
For this, she forgets about her foot, her mother dressed
in black, an umbrella's silver tip drawing circles
on the parquet floor.
Her mother's umbrella gets caught in a notch.
Once, when young, she wanted a man
to take her own slippers off, to carry her
to a lake to twirl and skate.
Oh, the tiny blades on her feet.
Now the shuffle of toe shoes, pain
that has its own sound only another dancer hears.
Une, deux, trois.
Still holding her ankle, the young girl never looks up.
Her mother, who knows about chance, how it never arrives,
is content to look away from the artist,
from the sketch and pastels, the browns
built up to show the monotony of waiting.
That's it.
Keep it rolling.