The Afternoon of the Fawn

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.