STAGE NOTES

I’m trying to set a morning routine 
for my younger self. She had cut out the word JOY 
from purple construction paper and taped it 

to the ceiling above her bed 
because she had read happy people 
are grateful first thing in the morning 

and because she was pathetic 
like quilt work neurosis 
and every drink with rum in it. 

Yesterday I threw up coffee and ibuprofen, 
later I coined it breakfast 
of losers but I do not think that is the 

JOY anyone meant. In the romantic ballets, 
the tulle reaches the mid-calf and the ladies 
always die from a mortar-pestle mix of heart 

conditions and dancing. From fourth position 
you can turn, yes, you can turn 
well enough from fourth position, 

but Balanchine’s ballerinas keep their back legs straight
because he loved to love them lined up. 
Twisted man—anything for open skin. I promised 

my joints away to grace, but that’s beside 
the point. Here, a crouched gesture: 
turn your head only, then hands, 
now shoulders, hands, head, perfect, now 
do it again, yes, that is what I asked for. I’ll take a dark 

and stormy, JOY and daiquiri. I will sink 
into velvet mezzanines.
I miss the seams of her toes, ripped
from turning too much.