I remember she was a ballerina because I thought
they all had gone extinct
like phone books or fax machines or knowing that someone Good
is coming to save us. She looked proud, a little embarrassed,
recounting hours of practice for only blisters
and blackened nails.
Walking to the garden, this takes time. To escape
takes even longer.
She doesn't dance anymore. Sometimes, I tell her, writing
is only carving lines into a stone wall; a clever way to count the days