Poetry Sunday

As the father of a daughter, I can very much relate to this ...

At the Diamond School of Dance 

by Jon Loomis 

It’s me and the mothers, out in the foyer.
Linoleum floors, knotty-pine, late ’50s rumpus room-
long row of trophies, blue ribbons on a shelf.
I’m here with my daughter, who’s four.
Who, because no one gives princess lessons,
has opted for dancing. She likes the tutus, the tap shoes,
the tights. The teachers are kind.
They’re graceful as egrets, strong in the thighs.
We chitchat, the mothers and I. We futz with our phones.
We’re large, rooted like silos.
Chopin leaks from the studio: a nocturne, full of rain.
The little girls dance-plié, sashay, arabesque-
earnest as death, as if nothing
was ever so hard, or mattered so much. Mothers!
Let us rush in and embrace them! Let us snatch them
up to our great bosoms, and never tell them the truth.


Never tell them the truth. Unfortunately, they'll learn it soon enough. And nowadays, sadly, the truth means little anyhow.

Have a good day. Be good to your daughters, and your sons, and your grandchildren. More thoughts tomorrow, when we visit Ensenada, Mexico on the approach to the end of our vacation.

Bilbo