Dancers

by Jeremy Szuder

​The gentle velvet click of beetle bones 
and joints rubbing notes of stairway melodies 
into a spiral of upwards waltzing, 
it begins when the fingerprint transfers
itself onto a pane of cold glass.
 
The warm flesh is mentioned 
so casually as a dot is round,
because it is the vessel of
all brilliant dancers,
 
even when they have folded
their lanky wings and even when nature 
strains to mock the pressing tender foot,
that foot dreaming of becoming
a cat's paw or a falcon's beak.
 
I thirst in a silent swell,
my skull encased in a pillowed ocean 
of ballet flats and the ankle weights pulling
sparrow bodies down into pools
beneath the well worn floorboards of 
this institution.
 
To rise again with great passion,
this artistry takes hostage the hearts 
of babes who’ve assigned their souls 
to the care and possession of a madness
that will never fully pass.
 
It is an avalanche of ivory keys and 
gossamer screams,
sent razor sharp to cut through
the thickness of the summer
nights.

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Jeremy Szuder (he/him) lives in a tiny apartment with his wife, two children and two cats. He works in the evenings in a very busy restaurant, standing behind a stove, a grill, fryers and heating lamps, happily listening to hours of hand selected music and conjuring ideas for new art and poetry in his head. When his working day ends and he enters his home, he likes to sit down with a glass of wine and record all the various words and images that bear fruit within his mind.