Tanka

by

Lisa Alexander Baron

a hot summer morning--

green in every shade, yet

not one bird; no

swatch of red or yellow, even

the blue tip of a jay's wing

still trying to direct

my father's ghost:

the ultimate song-and-dance man

traveling with a trunk

of loud history

watching this wind horse

on a prayer flag

of brown, green, and blue

fly our worries

from ground, to tree, to sky

Degas's Little Dancer Aged

Fourteen, her eyes nearly-closed,

but still flooded

with a fiery light

this modern dancer feels

my son and husband

running lines for a show--

my son as the Wolf, ready;

my husband off-pitch,

lost as Red Riding Hood