Kansas Medicine Show, 1928
On the morning you are found missing
your mother says
It must be gypsies! Then she cries.
The neighbors know
you are the little girl who dances.
This constant tapping, these
dusty pirouettes, this insistence
on tulle, it drives everyone crazy.
Downtown, a man is singing cures,
amber syrups, mint powders.
On the back of his wooden truck,
you dance, tapping
in your mother’s shoes, pretending
you don’t know your audience.
That night, your mother trades tears
with you, takes away five silver dimes,
bites them, puts them in a jar.
The jar goes high on a shelf.
Later, you sneak it down, risking
It’s empty.
These days, dancers are everywhere.
These days, there is wordless singing
in your kitchen. Under the table,
your feet, tapping, insisting.
