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The Creative Dance

In dance class we paired off,
one as sculptor, one clay—
the first to mold real flesh
however thought swayed.
One reclined an odalisque
worthy of Renoir or Goya.
Another posed Mercury—
foot reared, flight extended.

Our compliant legs and arms
relieved in graceful shapes.
Maybe that's how God creates us—
every toe and fold and lid
whittled with curve of air
and others' palms.

Note: This poem originally appeared in The Xavier Review.