May 2015
Lisa Wiley
wileymoz@yahoo.com
wileymoz@yahoo.com
I teach literature, poetry, and creative writing at Erie Community College North in Buffalo, NY, where I live with my husband and our three children. I am the author of two chapbooks: My Daughter Wears Her Evil Eye to School (The Writer's Den, 2015) and Chamber Music (Finishing Line Press, 2013).
New York, in my Ballet Flats
The line of the dancer…that’s what the poet tries for...the line, the balance...
— Maya Angelou
Early morning I slip on the pink leather —
a dancer’s shoes, a dreamer’s shoes
point my toes on the subway platform
tendu, rond de jambe, trace a half moon
around me. Soft soles caress hard pavement
curve around Village cobblestones
glissade over ancestors’ ashes
pirouetting through sidewalks crowded
with streams of stardust — determined,
private pilgrimages hoping to be found.
Free and light with every smooth landing,
I steal the city’s pulse
capture the horn-beat rhythm
claim it as my own, searching for that line —
night arrives feet swollen and spent
one petit jeté closer to a poet’s dream.
Soho Rooftop
The whole world on pause,
a comic book backdrop, you say
water towers etched along the sky
for superheroes to climb
sleek sides ready for spider webs.
Freedom Tower guarding us all,
drowning out the sirens.
We lean into corner cushions
raise our chardonnay glasses —
pretty words don’t matter.
It’s the way you tilt your head,
listen to what I mean, the chapel
of your sea glass eyes. Finding my neck,
Earth forgets to spin —
The line of the dancer…that’s what the poet tries for...the line, the balance...
— Maya Angelou
Early morning I slip on the pink leather —
a dancer’s shoes, a dreamer’s shoes
point my toes on the subway platform
tendu, rond de jambe, trace a half moon
around me. Soft soles caress hard pavement
curve around Village cobblestones
glissade over ancestors’ ashes
pirouetting through sidewalks crowded
with streams of stardust — determined,
private pilgrimages hoping to be found.
Free and light with every smooth landing,
I steal the city’s pulse
capture the horn-beat rhythm
claim it as my own, searching for that line —
night arrives feet swollen and spent
one petit jeté closer to a poet’s dream.
Soho Rooftop
The whole world on pause,
a comic book backdrop, you say
water towers etched along the sky
for superheroes to climb
sleek sides ready for spider webs.
Freedom Tower guarding us all,
drowning out the sirens.
We lean into corner cushions
raise our chardonnay glasses —
pretty words don’t matter.
It’s the way you tilt your head,
listen to what I mean, the chapel
of your sea glass eyes. Finding my neck,
Earth forgets to spin —
©2015 Lisa Wiley