BALLET CLASS
By Glenn Pape
It’s one thing for a father to tell his daughter, “You can fly,”
because he wants her to feel confident and free.
It’s quite another to actually watch her leave the ground;
small, young, and light as dust above the polished pine floor.
For a second it seems as if she’ll just keep rising.
The teacher tells all the girls not to glance in the mirror
because there’s nothing there for them to see.
My God… how could she possibly deny you
this glimpse of the doves reflected in your eyes,
the sparrows between your fingers
and the hummingbirds beneath your feet?
Look in the mirror, daughter. You can fly.
YOUR GRANDAD’S PROMISE
To Yves
Little Leaf, if “Grandad” doesn’t work for you, I’ll let you choose my name.
I’ll wear red suspenders and loud shirts, so you won’t lose me in the crowd.
I’ll tell you stories, and speak in the voices of donkeys, pigs, seashells and stones.
I’ll bring my telescope to show you the rings of Saturn and the moons of Jupiter.
I’ll lift you towards the Milky Way. I’ll tempt you to believe in magic
with marked cards and disappearing coins, but I will never share the “pull my finger” trick.
I won’t do it – I can’t steal that glory from my son.
I won’t lie to you, Little Bean, but I’m sure I’ll exaggerate often.
I’ll be sparing with my lessons but there will be a few:
I can help you learn to be kind without being a sucker, to love the storm
as much as you love the calm, to leave ample room for heartbreak
and ample room for doubt. I’ll laugh with your imaginary friend and teach you both
the Holy Sacrament of Cookies and Milk. I’ll call you Little Booger, Little Bucket, Little Butt –
the world is filled with hilarious words, and I’ll help you learn them all.
Later, much later, I’ll show you how to swear properly; how to launch your filth
with passion and purpose. When you get your first tattoo I’ll examine it gently,
with curiosity, not judgement. When you roll your eyes, I’ll purse my lips.
When you grit your teeth, I’ll bite my tongue. Little Hammer, Little Fist,
when you finally step out alone to face the night, I’ll step back into the shadows –
waiting, listening, on edge. And if I hear them threaten you, I’ll be ready to fight.
Roaring and spitting on spindly legs, I’ll wear the bastards down.
Little Hedgehog, I want to take you to the field where your father first saw fireflies,
the city where your Nonna and I fell awkwardly in love,
the river where my father caught a steelhead and danced, grinning in the water.
I want you to feel that cold current like an electric shock surging back,
through your aunt, your great uncles and distant cousins, ancestors known
and unknown, heroes and cowards scattered across the world.
Little Spider, I want your web to touch them all.
Little Flicker, Little Spark, I won’t lie to you, but I might not always see things clearly.
At my age, the past is a raggedy blanket, beautifully woven but coming undone.
The future is a watered-down whiskey in a bar getting ready to close.
It’s possible that nothing I’m saying will actually happen. You want the truth?
The only thing I know for sure is the brush of your soft hair in the crook of my arm.
Little Spring, Little Geyser, Little Ocean, little one, in this singular, breathless,
blinding moment, the promise that you bring to me is all I could possibly need.
Glenn Pape (he/him/his) is a happily retired man attempting to age gracefully while sharing a house in Portland, Oregon with his wife and a lovable terrier mutt who looks like a cross between Bernie Sanders and a loofah. He’s passionate about Women’s Flat Track Roller Derby and the Chicago Cubs, no matter how much that passion may hurt. He began submitting his writing in earnest at the age of 50 and has since been published in the “North American Review,” “The Sun,” “Poet Lore,” “Pulp Literature,” “Connecticut River Review,” and “The Rhysling Anthology,” among many other journals.
In Memoriam: We are sad to share that Glenn passed away in February 2025. His work is cherished by many, and we are proud to share space with his work. Please visit his website to find more about his life and writing.
Artwork Source: “The Curtain,” Maria Pianelli Blair
Artist Statement:“The Curtain” is an analog collage, featuring vintage ephemera. It depicts one’s yearning for escape.
Maria Pianelli Blair is a writer and multidisciplinary artist based in New Jersey. Her artwork has been published in Contemporary Collage Magazine; FEELS Zine; Photo Trouvee Magazine; and Chill Mag, among other publications, and featured in both galleries and virtual exhibitions. Her writing has been published in Gypsophila Magazine, swim press, StepAway Magazine, the Staten Island Advance, and New Paltz Times. You can follow her on Instagram @strange_sunsets.
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