The Dancer“Dancer me!” She shouts
and we are all forced to watch.
Her two left feet flip flopping
before carelessly tripping her up.
Most people say she’s mentally
challenged, a select cruel few
call her retarded, their voices venomous,
though unmistakably ignorant.
Her name is Becca. She was born
58 days premature to a woman whose
own life was in such a state of disrepair
we can hardly point fingers, place blame.
I am one of her caretakers and so
there are days when it’s all I can do
to stay level headed, to remain patient.
Today we are especially tired, us caretakers.
Just having returned from taking our charges,
these adult-sized children, to see the Nutcracker.
Becca has landed, backside to the floor.
She sits mildly shaken, unsure whether
or not to cry.
I bring my palms together, clapping,
as do the others, as we all give her
a standing ovation, until she smiles,
hideously happy now, I shout,
“Dancer you Becca! Dancer you!”