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?