MusicBox

remember:

you chose a man

who does not understand

rhythm.

I couldn't convince the blind

I could dance. They'd hear my feet drag

like bird's do when they break water, hear you

ow at my missteps, and they wouldn't be wrong to

call me gawky and white.

You're always nice, though.

You use that maternal advice:

"you're getting better each time,"

even though I know,

we know,

I need lessons or wine

to try and match what you do,

how you go about the whole thing

like there is only now. 

You wake up dancing,

and I believe somehow

you were born twirling,

were a music box ballerina

in your mom's underbelly,

waiting to be wound up,

to stretch out your arms

and spin,

knowing the world

would have to forget.