Why Dancers Wear White And Some Wear Red, poem by Jeanine Stevens

Because they soar like Mesozoic birds,
above the black glass lake,
trust the buoyancy of air,
the obscure pirouette, and
tail feathers shouting the grand jete.

Because they are uncertain if shoulders
will hold them in unexpected mist.
So they dance to Tchaikovsky
singing like swans toward the sky.

And some wear red—dance
the Merengue, releasing all rhythm.
It is not what the mother holds
back that frees the daughter.
The mystery of her body’s unknown
strength continues to excite.

Ignore the skilled: the skater
who performs three triples,
the artist who insists on widest borders
for their sketch. She can shout
like the audience, hold molten galaxies

between her limbs, then suddenly appear
at the Moulin Rouge, dance the Can-Can
perform a Ronde Jamb, and see patrons
all looking like Toulouse-Lautrec
clapping, stomping on tabletops.