Grand Jet� 
I prepared to jump
a grand jet� from deck to dock
no more difficult than leaping across
black and white tiles
under Mrs. Fuller’s arched eyebrows
(shaved and painted-on)
She was a macaw in a pet shop window
in Wyoming in the 60’s
a woman living in leotards and dancing shoes
giving commands in French
to a room full of awkward girls
My husband and I spent most of that Florida
December huddled around an electric heater
in the main salon of Fine Madness
an area no larger than a deep freeze
Except the day we caught
octopuses and stingrays
and the day we sailed
across the gulf’s bathtub
And that day
when I rose gracefully from the deck
remembering Mrs. Fuller at the marina
where I worked as a waitress
the summer after high school
how she recognized me
how I got bored with ballet and
how my mother wanted me to be a ballerina
I came down gracefully unexpectedly
in a brief opening between deck and dock
in that realm of tropical fish
lost cities
monsters imagined
on lone night watches
where I could be crushed
between the boat
and pilings garlanded
with oysters
And when the old man
working on his decrepit craft
reached out to me
like Baryshnikov
I held on
as he lifted me
into a pas de deux
And the pelicans
wandering the dock
wearing their long faces
were amazed
at the size
of his catch |
