Francine Rubin

I stand outside the studio
in pale light, the dancers flickering

behind glass. As the teacher demonstrates,
I envision my arms and legs, phantom

limbs, forming the steps. The pianist plays
the notes of my former body – Stravinsky,

Firebird – when my body was a bird,
igniting with each ecstatic beat of wing.

She and I know the fading
rhythm, but each day she sounds

the exuberance of youth, flash
of red against sky. Each day

the space between notes widens,
until the music is only in the body’s

memory, unable to sound.