Strangers
By Jacqueline West


You came to watch me dance
uninvited; hiding in the balcony rows
with the red velvet and the brass-hinged wood.
You were one secret. Inside me,
another. The threatening stain
on the blue satin costume, the ache hanging
like a pendulum from each pirouette.
I had never been so myself, or so alone.

You left before rehearsal was over,
while our shoes still scuffed in resin boxes,
our arms still lifting, arcing, our hands
still posed to hold an imaginary cup.
The things I didn’t tell you could fill it up.
My body was a sudden burden, a stranger’s child
I carried through each jeté, each pas de chat.
I danced to conceal it. I danced, but not for you.

Jacqueline West's work has appeared in journals including St. Ann's Review, Inkwell Journal, flashquake, Briar Cliff Review, Barnwood, and The Pedestal Magazine.  She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  More about her work can be found at www.jacquelinewest.net.

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