Theresa Wymer "Keno Speaks" There is a precision in the knife cut, the fan's twist, A rhythm of dance in the kill and the flash of a robe. I have worked, I have trained, so hard, so hard, To hone these skills like the edge of a sword. I wait here, the dancer, in front of these fools Who, unknowing, mocking, await a moment's titillation By the dancing girl and the skill with which she Tilts her fan, her head, she unsmiling with Each small gesture speaking louder than any cry, Any plea for vengeance, for mercy, for some Beauty in this world which for so long has been Dark, cruel, and devoid of hope. Oh, my father. I do this for you. You were my soul, my heart, my world Until the world was slashed And splintered into nothing Leaving only an aching scar-- A scar that does not show on a flawless face But on the heart and soul, damaged beyond repair. Oh, watch my face. I was taught well. Never will I betray a flash of emotion. No tears shape this mask, nor alter its perfection, And no trace of smile, no frown of rage. Beauty is stillness. No flicker of a mouth here. Perhaps, if they see my eyes...but no. My eyes will not betray me. I will be strong, And not fail you as I must have failed before. I rise, I dance. What perfection of form! Her dance is of heaven; she scarcely seems human. No one can see the ache of contorted muscles, For my art is of concealment, making light of pain. Beauty is all, is all. Humanity cannot change it. Haven't you wondered why great beauties don't seem human? Believe me, we work hard to make you think we are But something slips through anyway, some shard of anger, And you can tell, there is something missing, Or something added. Now, I'm not sure which. It could be either. Watch me, watch me dance. Impressive, yes? Who would ever think I was not born to dance, but to be happy? Life was sweet then, but who can count on joy. Hone your skills, dancer, bide your time, and wait. Waiting must be all--I can wait a thousand years Until the time to strike, shed beauty, bite. You fools. Don't sprawl there red-faced, Show some respect! You think me lowly, But I tell you, I come from higher estate than yours. But a dancer worth the name is silent, Showing all, concealing all, contradicting herself With every movement. You only *think* you know me. You caress the mink's pelt, forgetting the teeth, Gaze at the sun, forget you're going blind. Don't look away! Watch me. Remember. I was not always like this, will one day be again. Oh, my father. Rest easy. I do all this for you. I have not forgotten the lessons you taught me. See how well I recite them for this gang of fools. My gift, heart's love turned to heart's hate, I present, so carefully wrapped in corrosive paper, That they cannot see the vial of venom, But think it distillation of angels. You bags of blood, I want to rip you open Watch your fool heads roll as you scream for pity But find none. You showed none to me, What makes you think I'll grant it now? No. I won't break cover. But someday, someday... Oh, you'll see then the dancer's greatest gift, That of destroying your illusion, so carefully wrought, So close to life, you thought that's what it was. Precision, a surgical cut. I promise You won't know you're dead until you hit the floor. You never feel the stroke that kills you. Only the living know it. As I have for so long. 8/17/96, 7:30 AM ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Theresa Wymer posting from jamesl@efn.org