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      May 12, 2023FrankKim Hansen

      I was smitten with a waiter in the dance club,
      not romantically, but in the entertainment
      division of my delight.
      He was long bones and turned-out feet,
      his spine like a tape measure
      you lock out to its full length,
      rigid and wobbly all at once.
      His hair bobbed along with the drinks
      he carried on the tray palm-up,
      and flirting looked like a role
      he had overprepared for,
      practicing on the DJ, on the bouncer,
      on every one of us as he delivered
      our seabreezes and my repeat
      requests for water.
      When I was accepted
      into the master’s program for dance
      and took my place at the barre,
      there he was in tights and battered slippers
      warming up with grand pliés and cambré.
      Every moment was better
      with his repartee
      whispered behind my derriere
      as we pointed and reached.
      You could never get all that ballet out
      of his spine in modern technique.
      You had to put up with it
      if you wanted him in your dances,
      which was worth it for the stories
      about his days with the Ballet Trockadero
      where he played Jane Eyre en pointe,
      bourréeing with a book across the stage
      and Mother Ginger in the Nutcracker.
       
      At the upscale Italian restaurant
      where he also waited,
      he stood in fifth position
      preparing your Caesar salad
      right at your table,
      singing along with the piano man
      to I Don’t Know How To Love Him
      from Jesus Christ Superstar.
      One day he called and invited me to dinner,
      his dime,
      at The Cork near the apartments
      where we both lived.
      He looked lovely in white jeans,
      his curls shining with something expensive.
      We raised our glasses
      and his toast was an announcement
      of his full-blown AIDS diagnosis
      as if it were a part he had fought for.
      From that day on
      he smelled like Grand Marnier
      day or night,
      even when I visited him
      in a trailer in the Black Hills
      after he got too sick
      to live far from family.
      Neuropathy took the feeling
      in one arm and leg,
      and his skin was mottled with sores
      that makeup couldn’t hide,
      but as we walked a brief way
      to the river near his home
      with his little dog circling
      his dandy cane,
      he stayed upright and regal
      as if a small tiara balanced
      atop his nest of auburn curls.
      He wanted me to have his pointe shoes,
      ending every phone call
      with that promise.
      But the phone calls stopped.
      The shoes never arrived.
      I miss that man.

      from #79 - Irish Poets

      Kim Hansen

      “My father calls me to tell me what he is writing about. Sometimes it is about washing dishes or how his father and uncles looked falling asleep in social situations, acting as if they were pushing their hair back or giving their necks a whip. Then we read each other a few poems by our favorite poets, and I get back to writing about how we move and operate in spite of or because of gravity.”