The Nutcracker
He sits in front of me
clutching a bouquet of thorny, blood-red roses.
Painful, I think, but nothing like the pain
of watching his daughter (my student)
take her first step
out onto the stage. Her toe shoes
thump paradoxically as she
like a pink thistle
twisting in the wind
springs from side to side
barely kissing the wood as she lands.
Her finger flutter like hummingbirds,
her slender neck arcs
like it must have done
when she was first lifted
from between her mother’s legs.
He saw it all, all right then.
Those first steps in tiny shoes
her first pose before the barre
the day her downy hair had grown enough
to twist up on her head.
And now a boy is lifting her, placing hands on tender places.
The father tenses in his chair,
releasing his breath
as she descends to earth
releasing
her partner’s hand and spins away.
Other boys will come.
The father sees them all
but ignores them now for the girl,
the girl who folds before him
a willow twig dressed in feathers
straining muscles he has kneaded
yearning wide eyes he has sounded
reaching open hands he has always enfolded.
En fin
she closes like a flower at dusk
the light fading upon her.
But he can see her still,
never still.
He stands, signaling with roses.
As fragrant petals fall upon the stage
Swan-like she bends her body in thanks
rises like a quivering doe
nose lifted against danger
she spots the bouquet extended
and throws a kiss to her father
who catches it
as a blade to the heart.
