A semi-circle of girls speak softly
On the wooden floor of the dance studio
I stand
A question squeezes out my mouth
A response floats out of theirs
They return to trivial talk
L’escola…els nois…el maquillatge…
I remain standing, listening
My pointe shoe ribbons
Are wrapped around my ankles
They are slowly putting theirs on
I pretend to adjust my skirt
When it has been tied
Just right
For many minutes
But when class begins
Glitter pours from my fingertips
And shared pained smiles appear
From the muted screaming of our squished toes
Pas de chat, plié, rond de jambe,
Glissade, temps levé, arabesque
We all dance