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After the Dance

My calves softened.
My feet grew unused to pointing.

After the dance,
I didn't choreograph
while driving my car—or not as often.

After the dance,
I gathered my notes,
filed my diagrams in a drawer.

I stopped phoning for rehearsal space,
stopped counting in phrases of eight,
gained 15 pounds.

After the classes, the lights on stage,
I tired and tried to take a break,
but I could not keep my foot in the door.

I became a still person in a chair.
After the dance, I had to write.