Ballet and Sawhorse

2 3 R B A L L E T A N D S A W H O R S E E L I Z A B E T H S M I T H E R The house was being added to: one widened room, new wider windows. I held onto the sawhorse to practice ballet. My hand fell down to touch the beam the legs, apart, seemed like pliés I ground my heels into curls of sawdust. Over and over like the new planks’ dust I repeated my foundation exercises until my muscles felt like hammers. Just barre work. A few tendus and port de bras. There was no center of the room to come into just planks piled up, awaiting tomorrow when the hammers would begin again. I took care not to step on silver nails, spilled from a tin or stub my toes on a chisel. And then, after a sweating hour, I relinquished the rough-cut barre and lay beside it gasping to breathe naturally. The motes swam above me in a golden light my sweat dried and dampened the floor and had fine dust added to it. ‘‘Enough,’’ my mother called. ‘‘Time to eat.’’ And up I rose, like a sti√ trestle, and touched the sawhorse in benediction. ...