Dance Scene 1989 — NYC
Take the F train to Manhattan to 23rd Street,
walk to Nineteenth Street between Fifth Avenue
and Avenue of the Americas – the map of North
South and Central Americas in the faces
of the dancers squeezing into the elevator, bubbles
of laughter, to the eleventh floor: Alina from Cuba,
Beatriz from Puerto Rico, Julio from Argentina,
Robert from Texas, Kevin from Massachusetts,
the motley modern dance ladies with unshaved
armpits, Mother Gaia thighs next to the sylphs
in pink silk ribboned toe-shoes grey plastic pants
to take off more sweat on already evaporated frames.
Ernie tells me – The word is don’t pick up the lettuce girl
too quickly or she’ll fart, and then you have to carry
her all across the stage with your head hid under her
skirt. He winks. Then Ernie, Jack, Harry, Greg, don’t come
to class anymore, I visit them in hospitals look at
their wan smiles, faces pale then dot with lesions.
At One-Hundred and Fifty-Ninth Street in the Harkness
Pavilion, suitable for ballet dancers, I sit with John
wearing a New York City Ballet cap. He takes off
the cap and shows me the X and O circles on his head
marked for radiation. He holds my hand and weeps
– no tears – they’ve all dried now.
I remember him in class, long legs start at my waist,
in black tights and white t-shirt, giacometti-slim
but elastic like a rubber band. He always says hello
calls my name like I’m his best friend in the world.
My mother – he says – won’t visit me, she doesn’t believe
in my illness. Sit with me, please.
We sit together. And then his bed is gone.
I still see him: his legs make semaphores, mid-leap.
— dedicated to Johnny B.