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
was broken
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.


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