Dancer   
 
           I've seen her  many times, since  then.  I  have seen her,
           watched her  in  a  trance,  as  she  executes  beautiful,
           skillfully timed jumps, leaps, and twirls.  Sometimes when
           I see her, I am in the balcony of an empty auditorium, the
           sole partaker of  her grace.   Other  times I  am watching
           television when  static  fills the  screen,  and suddenly,
           there she is, torturing  me, burning me,  making me writhe
           with longing for her.  And once (the first time) I saw her
           in the street...
 
           I do not know who she is.
 
           I was  on the  sidewalk.   It was  a long,  wide, deserted
           street with industrial  buildings lining  both sides.   It
           was around two  in the  morning, and  the late night/early
           morning chill sucked the  warmth out of  each of the cells
           in my body.  The one lamp  post shone light on the street,
           slanting it through the ethereal mist.  I could see street
           vagrants, dirty  people  wrapped in  blankets,  lining the
           sidewalks, sleeping with their backs  against the cold red
           brick or thick concrete mortar walls.  Broken window panes
           glint with wide, gaping mouths in the cold.
 
           She was in the middle of the street.  Dancing.  She had
           no clothes on.
 
           I could hear no  music, but she  kept time perfectly, with
           as much precision as if she were a robot, or as if she had
           a metronome built into her head.   The smooth liquidity of
           her motions made my  head spin, but the  bums did not seem
           to notice.  I cannot convey the  chill I felt in my bones,
           yet she seemed to take absolutely  no notice of the cold.
           She twirled, spun,  and lept in  the middle  of the street
           for an eternity before I moved.
 
           I walked  forward, plodding,  so  unnerved, I  was shaking
           uncontrollably.  I had not one single thought in my brain.
           She suffused all my  thoughts and actions.   I was not me.
           But still I  moved on,  controlled, compelled  by her body
           and the soft sounds  made by her feet  on the pavement and
           her sharp intakes of breath.
 
           She stopped suddenly, coming  out of a  spin with her arms
           spread out like  wings, her long  hair splayed  out in all
           directions, stopping to face  me.  I  can see her  as in a
           picture, her body, silhouetted by  the light and mist, the
           building behind her out of focus.   Her expression was not
           one of surprise,  as if I  had frightened  her, or startled
           her, but as if  she were inviting a  guest into her house.
           She was not smiling, but she looked overjoyed to see me.
 
           "I can see it  all, now," she  had said, breathing heavily
           from the exercise.  "Now I understand everything."
 
           She extended her hand. I numbly took it, and her warmth
           flowed into my hand, and up my arm...
 
                                  ****
 
           All I  know  is  that  she  dances  beautifully,  that she
           warms me when I am  cold.  She shocks  me when I am blas^Fe;
           she tortures me when I am  comfortable.  She feeds me when
           I am hungry.  And she weakens me when I am strong.
 
           I have looked for her, in school, among my friends who are
           female.   I have  looked  for her  in  ^SCosmopolitan^S, ^SElle^S,
           ^STeen^S, and ^SPlayboy^S.   I have searched  for her exhaustively
           on the television.
 
           But she does not come to me when I need her.  She comes to
           me when I am weak, vulnerable, unable to fight against her
           attraction, her dominance.  She comes to me when she knows
           I cannot resist...  when I am asleep.