(The Mother of Modern Dance)

How crazy you were

but didn’t you hold the answer?

A Soul hurts.

Can always guarantee

you’ll be a freak.

For people are afraid to see another

free.

And when they booed while you

spilt primal privilege on the stage,

the lilt of your arm,

the arc of your neck

spoke clear to my devotion

through martyred movement.

Long after stage lights go dark

leaving the audience to slumber,

I carry away with me 

the shimmering gift of

your aura.