The Editor Attempts Bailar
I dance flamenco the way a giraffe
staggers after being shot with a tranquilizer.
I dance flamenco only slightly more gracefully
than my washing machine dances flamenco.
I execute flamenco turns like a three year old
with hands over head, tilting and dizzy.
My flamenco arms would actually be all right
were they not expected to move
while my legs were also moving.
I dance flamenco like someone
who wishes she’d signed up for tap instead.
When my flamenco teacher tells us
we can express anything we want
with our arms during this step, I usually
express a sense of gratefully not falling down.
My teacher is filled with pasion y arte,
she coaches us to gaze into our own eyes
in the mirror. When I gaze into the mirror,
I don’t see any fuego, just a white girl
in yoga pants and heels. I don’t see anything.
I watch myself fold in each finger, one
at a time, rotate the wrist, then open out,
amazed at the elegance, my familiar hands
transformed in smooth and luscious movement.
Walking home I count flamenco beats,
rhythm pulsing in my ribs despite
all my failures and flailing. Years later,
I’ll look back on this flamenco class
and wonder if I might’ve done it better
after giving birth, if all that pain
might’ve fueled something more fierce
than I was before. Years later, I still won’t take
another flamenco class. Years later,
I’ll remember how, at my best moments,
I danced flamenco the way a newborn colt
shudders to its feet still covered in blood.
The Medical Editor Gets Pregnant
I know what can go wrong,
seen it page after page.
There’s a whole list of words
ending in –cephaly alone that I need
to not think about, all of which,
in another world, I once ensured
were spelled correctly.
I know just enough to be dangerous, so
the ultrasound technician points things out:
Ribs.
Finger bones.
All four chambers
of the heart. I take home
the best thing I’ve ever seen,
a perfectly formed little spine,
and the tiny feet, too,
classic shots, clear enough
to print in a book.
