The Death of a Dancer -- A Poem

The mayfly dancing on the worn, wire screen of my kitchen window has no idea she’s got 23 hours left to live.

She’s a lovely dancer, whimsical, and casting the most delicate of shadows on my face.

Still, my hands are wrinkled and my eyes damp.

27 minutes I have spent watching her perform.

1,620 seconds

It’s 9 o’clock.

Dinner is done and the children are sleeping.

Still, I wash dishes -  jetè,  jetè,  jetè 

With chipped porcelain and bent forks, I go through the motions

Rinse, scrub, rinse, repeat

Once I’m finished, I’ll head to my bathroom, with its old, flickering lights, and wash my hair.

Rinse, scrub, rinse, repeat [tomorrow]

In bed, with my cracked cuticles and wet hair, I’ll dream of my childhood, of dancing;

my pink dishrags will become pink shoes and I shall jump, and leap, and spin.

My feet hurt.

My eyes sting.

My heart mourns.

Her wings flutter.

She has no idea that as she dances, she’s dying;

as she lays her eggs and creates a family, she grows weary.