We all learn to leave
athletic shoes at home,
to move counterclockwise
around the floor, and not
to watch our feet. Eventually,
we know whether a song
invites a foxtrot or rumba
without being told. We stop
counting. Our hips undulate.
We slink like housecats.
But you can always tell
who has studied ballet.
It’s in the hands. The rest
of us stay grounded, unable
to use our wings or take our
eyes off theirs.
This poem first appeared in I-70 Review.
Used here with the author’s pemission.
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