Afternoon of the Fawn
The ballet skirt
is made from her
mother’s petticoats,
full and white with
layers to bounce
and fluff in high
circles
like the wings of a swan.
A silver safety pin
cinches the waist
tight.
Red brocade slippers
bought from a street stall
in the China
town
far down the highway
that twists through
mountain canyons
like a great serpent
then sleeping flat
and dull for hours
arrives at other canyons,
THE city.
The smell of sandal
wood incense
caresses the small
toes
encased in their private
temple
of beauty and
elegance.
Carefully, a shaking
hand places the needle
as her mother’s record spins,
don’t scratch it!
and the music of
Debussy
floats like the soft
mountain breeze
filing the room with
the scent of pine
as the red slippers
twirl
in the loops of the
hand braided rug.
The Afternoon of the
Fawn,
she had been told the
name.
As she dances
a small spotted deer,
like the ones she had
seen
snug to their mother
side
as the car sped past,
hides under ferns
and runs in dizzying
circles
round the trunks of
pine trees,
on the braided rug.
Years later,
She learns of satyrs
and the half goat faun.
The Afternoon of the
Faun.
But when the music
plays
the meaning is clear.
Debussy had it wrong
And a tiny spotted
deer
still dances in the
ferns and evergreens.
