Pointe Shoes

Why do you pull my spine

in every which way

and then hit me on old walls

and hardwood floors

to warm me up?

I was made by a little old woman

in her little old house,

filled with nothing but love.

I was tossed in a pile

with the rest of the homemade shoes,

and then sent away, alone, and scared.

One day, you picked me up,

and took me to the studio

we all dreamed of.

But no one told me,

no one warned me,

about the hours and hours

of pain and torture

you would put me through.

The days that turn into weeks

that turn into months of being hit

and smashed against the walls

and then hit and smashed

against the Marley floor.

But finally, the week arrives.

Show week.

I watch you put on a smiling face,

even though we both know you're hurting.

And so am I.

But we both will persevere,

and when the first steps are taken

onto the warn down, freshly cleaned stage,

all the months of pain and torture

suddenly turn into a beautiful masterpiece.

The glory of the 3

short minutes on stage

will last a lifetime.

And now I know,

I will never see that stage again,

and I will never see the floors

of the studio again,

for I am old and worn out.

I have lived my life.

As I reach

the back of your coat closet

in her apartment,

I can hear you call my birthplace

once again to see if there are any

pairs of pointe shoes in your size.