Ballet Class
I tried not to envy the ponytailed waifs
in my ballet class whose ten-year-old bodies
weighed less than dandelions.
I was as thin as they were, but my limbs
were like lead weights compared
to the willow branches of their arms, the bird-
like bones in legs that seemed stronger,
lighter—able to pirouette and plié
with so much ease. At least I make good grades
in school, I’d say to myself while holding
on to the barre like a ship’s mainmast
in a roiling sea. But I knew the ballet teachers
expected better of me—the only daughter
of a Prima Ballerina. It didn’t take long,
however, to see I had none of my mother’s talent.
I would never leap into the air and land like a swan
on the water, dip and sway like a sapling
in the wind. Though I liked wearing the black
leotard and pink tights, my soft, peony-colored
shoes, I couldn’t bend and touch
my toes, let alone twirl on them. So I shed
the ballet slippers and took up writing—
hoping to pen one day, a pirouetting poem,
a pas de chat of words that danced across a page.
*
Woman on the Beach
The woman pacing the rocky beach is no ghost
but a mother whose little boy rose
from his bed and wandered down to the water
while his parents were sleeping. Not quite three,
her only child was red-cheeked and plump
as a baby penguin, with black curls and a winning
smile that made his mother’s heart thump
in her thin chest just to think of it. She knew
he was gone but year after year she rented the same
cottage on the same shore on the same day her boy
disappeared—presumed drowned they said—
and now she is old. Widowed, white-headed
and frail, her body is blown this way and that by
the wind, but still she walks and sometimes
calls his name as if any minute, he’ll come running,
his flushed skin hot against her own cool flesh,
wriggling like a puppy that wants down but she will
not put him down. She will hold him
in her arms and keep him safe like she didn’t do
before, though nothing she says or does
or prays for will ever wake her from a sleep so deep
she never heard his feet hit the floor or the screen
door slam or his cries for help, her beautiful
boy whose mother failed him.
*
How to Shop with Your Mother
Never make her feel like she’s slowing
you down. Even when she meanders
into the shoe department, running her
hands over the soft leather, admiring
one pair or another for what seems like
forever, you do have time to wait. Then,
when the funeral director tells you they
need clothes for her to wear, a pair of
shoes, you will not open your mother’s
closet door and find, jumbled into a pile,
her worn out sandals, dress shoes with
dented heels, her faded thin-soled flats—
and feel such a wave of sorrow you can’t
catch your breath. You won’t be the one
who hurried her mother along, who kept
on sighing because she was holding you
up when there were so many places you
needed to go and things you needed to do.
*
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven full-length collections of poetry, including Night Talks: New & Selected Poems (Press 53), which was a finalist for (general) poetry in the International Book Awards and the Best Book Awards. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of literary journals, anthologies, magazines, and newspapers, including “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, JAMA, Poetry Foundation, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many more. Among her numerous awards are the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Nautilus Silver Book Award, Tennessee Williams Poetry Prize, and the Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize. She lives in North Carolina.
