WEBVTT

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The next poem is from
a painting by Degas.

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And in this painting, there's
a woman whom we don't know,

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she's dressed in black,
and right next to her

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we figure is probably either
her daughter, holding her foot,

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since dance is so excruciating
on the ankles and toes.

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There's three French
words, one, two, and three.

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And I'm not very good at
French, so if it sounds funny,

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that's the way it goes.

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I can't help myself.

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In the Sitting
Room of the Opera.

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In the sitting
room of the opera,

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a young girl holds
her left ankle,

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dreams of Parisian
fountains while lifted

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above the prince's head, her
arms held out and waiting.

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For this, she forgets about
her foot, her mother dressed

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in black, an umbrella's
silver tip drawing circles

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on the parquet floor.

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Her mother's umbrella
gets caught in a notch.

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Once, when young,
she wanted a man

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to take her own slippers
off, to carry her

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to a lake to twirl and skate.

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Oh, the tiny blades on her feet.

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Now the shuffle
of toe shoes, pain

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that has its own sound
only another dancer hears.

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Une, deux, trois.

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Still holding her ankle, the
young girl never looks up.

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Her mother, who knows about
chance, how it never arrives,

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is content to look
away from the artist,

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from the sketch and
pastels, the browns

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built up to show the
monotony of waiting.

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That's it.

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Keep it rolling.

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