July 20 Make-Up: Ballet and All, New Poem, "Pointe," New Cartoon

"She's a dancer," I said.  "Ballet and all.  She used to practice about two hours every day, right in the middle of the hottest weather and all.  She was worried that it might make her legs lousy--all thick and all.  I used to play checkers with her all the time."

Holden is speaking about the love of his life, Jane Gallagher.  Jane is a ballet dancer, among other things.  She also comes from a broken home with an abusive stepfather.

The reason I chose Holden's description of Jane is that I have a new poem for you guys.  I know, I know.  I'm a day late.  Saturday was extremely busy, and today hasn't been much better.  But, I owe my disciples a new poem, and this one is fresh off my journal pages.  I'm not quite sure how good it is yet.

I have a new cartoon, as well.  I'm also not sure how good the cartoon is either.

Basically, Saint Marty isn't sure of anything tonight.

Pointe

They're wrecked after a year,
each second my daughter spent
on her toes creased
into the wood box
with sweat and blister,
her first steps, panicked
lurches across the dance floor,
as if she were on the deck
of the Titanic as it listed,
snapped, sent her skidding
to the black Atlantic.
I wanted to save her
from gravity, have her grip
my fingers the way she did
as a baby, tethered to me
like a lifeboat, each move
an exercise in balance,
the ground beneath her feet
as unstable as lake ice
in May.  I still have her
first shoes, small, white
as bleached driftwood.
They're reminders of how
she once depended on me
to rescue her from each
drowning stumble.  The pink
slippers sit on her dresser now
along with stones she found
on the shores of Superior,
a wrist band for treading water
ten minutes longer than anyone
else at Bible camp last summer,
and medals, ribbons for ballet.
If I close my eyes, I see her,
mid-air or mid-water,
clumsy one-year-old,
graceful almost teen,
her limbs stretched
toward me or away,
wanting to be scooped up, saved,
or wanting to strike out
for swifter currents,
higher leaps,
deeper, bluer waters.

Confessions of Saint Marty