We are in the lingo of social workers
self-identifying. The hostess has no trouble
spotting us, leading us to our party,
the long table with the crutches leaned
behind it, a wheelchair
or two, the rest of us,
who limped here across the length of the red
dining room, with the fake Tiffany lights,
the arctic air-conditioning.
I have spent years not wanting
to be this person, squinting at mirrors
as though one distortion could black
out another, don’t mention it
and it isn’t there — Mother’s philosophy.
The afternoon is nearing its end,
the shadows lengthening in the parking lot.
We could be anywhere but we are
here with our stories. Timidly we pull
them out like rare coins, only to discover
how common they are at this table.
Jolie speaks of how she was stoned
every day at the bus. Mike D. remembers the boy
who liked to sneak up behind him
and with a blow to the back of the head
knock him flat to the ground. I tell them about the
beautiful blonde boy who followed me around
the playground all year third grade
screaming Why don’t you just die? Freak.
We speculate happily into the dusk
what makes them this way — the normal ones.
We speak of animal behavior and the group ethic,
and we do our best to keep the old
bitterness from our voices.
Then Elaine, wheeling herself restlessly back
and forth in her wheelchair says that what has always
sustained her has been the ballet.
I’m crazy for the dancers, she says, describing
the posters she hung on her wall as a girl. Farrell,
Barishnikov, Markova, other names
I’ve never heard. The art of it. The arms poised still
over the feet moving so fast.
Her vowels go round and rich, her eyes
glaze, brighten, and the rest of us look up to
see the dining room is empty; in the parking
lot darkness has fallen, and we look at Elaine,
her face aglow, her crippled legs
hanging useless, having just demonstrated
the flexibility of the human.
