Cathedral

She is slight, my sister,
with a dancer’s waist and shoulders.
Her back is a moon beneath her sweater.
She and her friends embrace strong and quick,
then line up at the bar for class.

An observation window sits above the white dance room, their sanctuary.
The teacher speaks in one-two-three’s infused with French
and the pianist is invisible.
“As well as you can today,” she says.
“minute by minute.”

My sister commands the vessel of her body
with raw, red heels and a mind like a knife.
Spectators group at the window
floating above the studio, above the streets of Boston.
I think of tourists visiting mosques and cathedrals,
hoping to take away a portion of beauty for themselves.

There is beauty to every person.
Some, however,
are a light in the dark. They need no adornment.
The color and structure of their hair, teeth, skin
are all their own and are perfect. They are
temple and art and music
and they give
so you do not have to take.