En pointe
now and then I feel it,
oldest of lost pauses, as if it had never gone,
pleat in time, box lengthening the foot,
body memory waiting, taut muscle
contesting the floor.
Behind my ears, air insists, extending,
emptying me of self;
I am weightless
in this satin moment before the double turn,
before flight.
Published Work of Miriam C. Jacobs 