past/present tense
by Eve Kagan
slowly dying now
my godmother was a Broadway dancer
then fashion designer—
legs
thicker than expected vertebrae rectified
disfigured feet hidden by Prada
the forgotten moves
like a glacier across her face—stillborn skin
translucent as tissue paper
barely creased
in 1956 she lined the inner rims
of her eyes
white so the back row could read
her expression ushering the audience
into
the story with pointed toes
holes in her stockings pink thread unraveling—plaques
blocking neurons
from dancing discord
you wonder
whether showtunes linger stitched
into memory like the label on a blouse—
brand size care instructions
scratching imperceptibly
between shoulder blades
she would cut it out
but her fingers grow less nimble—wouldn’t want to tear
a seam ruin the fabric
the last time I saw her she was almost inaudible
voice
descending spine collapsing—a deflated accordion
in the wheelchair
she referenced me in third person to no-one
in particular— I love her?
About the Author
Eve Kagan is a poet and trauma therapist. She writes at the intersection of her roles—offering words to the discovery, ambiguity, beauty, and brutality of being human. Her poems have been published by Cathexis Northwest Press, Eunoia Review, Amethyst Review, Lunate, Wild Roof Journal, Vineyard Literary, yolk, and Parks & Points & Poetry 2021.