One cannot ever be a dancer part-time.
If one dances, it consumes all one’s life,
every waking moment with the next arabesque.
The language of the seashore
as the rugged grey rocks
and brittle pieces of left-over shells.
A white mist hung over
the froth of water,
and I sat on a beach chair,
my auburn hair rustling in the breeze—
writing painstakingly with a pen and notebook
into the afternoon, out of reach
of my sworn enemy, death.
Her long dark braids
hung down her back.
The young native woman
was a peculiar sort of girl, with dark eyes
and a political mindset,
as she deliberated the weighty
flood of the tide with pageantry;
her thoughts were neither
fruitless nor unprolific,
examining the evidence of what
would be her verdict.
Emily Isaacson c. 2015 Tate Publishing.