The Dancer

A poem.

The Dancer Small flamenco aspirant
no more than six
dances with a surety
that she is what some think
she might become,

– the restaurant patio
her stage, indiscriminate
music from a loudspeaker
her guitars, empty tables
her rapt fans –

tiny hands curling furiously
and exaggerated twists flicker
sweet sparks in an artless fire,
and just like that she skips off,
her mother's voice the final olé.

Elizabeth Mata

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