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!”
