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At the dancing scholl of the sisters Schwartz
Silently grave as voyeurs in a powder room
we fathers sit with coats folded on knees
this visiting day, watching Miss Hermene
teach fourteen girls the elements of ballet.
Accompaniment is struck in chords upon
the Steinway grand. Outside a siren grieves:
law for a speeder below. Miss Hermene slaps
time on her thighs, her words exact and low.
Her muscular, liquid arms demonstrate grace
to daughters in pink tights along the bar.
Battement tendu! and fourteen arches curve.
She spots a limp leg, squats for a better view,
then sweeps from child to child, chin high, commanding--
love in her old eyes, discipline on her tongue,
correct as a queen, and fierce beneath her charm.
Our girls come hushed and quick, hair back, nails clean;
chubby or bony, concave or convex of chest,
gangly, petite or tough, their slippers whisper
in the studio. No scratching or wriggling now,
but each projects life to her pointed toe.
My own, the smallest, still sticks out her tummy
curving her limber spine. Her feet are flat,
her limbs thin. Braids swing as she takes correction
like kisses--with freckly cheeks and toothy grin.
Material comes raw, but Miss Hermene
makes girlflesh pirouette and count strict time.
Covertly I squirm--loosely sitting, like nature,
thinking how daffodils look to a worm.
Glissez! Sautez! Pliez! Knees skinned at skating
now bend in diamond shapes around the room,
and fathers dream of the stage where ballerinas
are purer than people, selfless, without age.
Jerome Judson