It was like the sky had hooked a wire to her breastbone,
And each pulled stitch of it jerked out a clumsy jig.
The dances were nervous and somber,
And looked like baby birds learning to fly.
The earth was hollow and echoed each tap
And spinning slide of her fingertips when she whirled.
There were only the cold wind
and empty longings in her hair for music.
Black branches snagged at her skirts to still her,
But they only ripped the gauze to tatters.
It was the shoes, heavy with borne children
And clinging like roots of lead
That fastened her to the earth,
saved from an awkward flight home.