Kevin McIlvoy
The Daylight Waltz
Our instructors are displeased.
Something we are doing
we must not ever do.
I hold my dance frame, keep
air as I should between
my arms and ribs to float
not freight me before you.
Something has, however,
caused a brief critical
straight twinkle danced by our
vigilant instructors.
Our four points of contact
must be fully correct:
my hand high upon your
left shoulder blade, your hand
opened at my shoulder
and arm joint, thumb balanced
at the right connection
of arm that rests lightly
against arm at proper
2.
formal and romantic
waltz height, right hand nested
cordially in the V-
tilt at the juncture I
have formed with my left palm
held in a boy’s greeting
no higher than the top
of your relaxed woman’s shoulders.
As Mr. Allen left-
turns-left-turns Mr.Trautman,
I wonder how, how we
triggered their so-slight ice-
capading gesture of
displeasure. Not looking
down (Dance Sin), I can feel
my right shoe on the mark
at elbow’s length, arrowed
between your feet subtly
flexed in half- heel matte blacks
perfectly correct and
neither far apart nor
too, too close together.
Seventy, like us, our two
instructors are, of course,
3.
veering some from the lane
of second measure where
their rise and fall become
rise and rise, their right turns
are not right, not at all.
I have to wonder if
your anklet may be their
point of stress, your light cha-
cha-ing beads spoke-clicking:
incorrect incorrect.
We do not, in general,
offend the silence – we
are beyond what Misters
Trautman-Allen call “that
fatuous pillow-talk
phase” of the dancers who
must whisper “Slow-quick-quick,”
or “Turning, now – Turning,”
or “Now – our Progressive,”
or the worst, “Open to Dip.”
We know The Dip, which should
not be called “Wedding Dip”
(“Why limit it?” he asks,
and never call him Traut),
4.
needs only a wide turn,
needs your waist under my
unstraining left arm, my
right arm and wrist, my hand
raised in a sword-flourish,
your wrist, your hand up and
fingertips in classic
rising-flame lightness. And
all this to only be
named Dancing if wordless.
Why has – why, I ask, has
our Mr. Trautman now
so wrongly miscountered
Mr. Allen’s left-right sway?
They have turned out, in an
inexact quarter-turn
to glare at you, at me.
At least we’re not lipping
lyrics, that high waltz-crime
Misters Trautman-Allen
detest. We can resist
stylizing our fine head
movements like the other
slack-neckers, mouth-puckered
5.
pistoners, boob-bobbing,
board-pizzling, penguining
rain-sippers -- we are not
clueless to the proper
projection of buttocks,
at least, at very least.
There was once a Mrs.
Trautman – Joan – Joanna –
we do not mention her,
Joanna, Joanna –
trying to sustain our
vertical position,
the closing of our feet
walk-waltzing the motion,
our leg swing, Joanna –
compression, Joanna –
Joanna – Joanna.
Twenty-eight or thirty
thoughts of her per minute.
The minutes must be glided
past – better concentrate
on our next rotations
than once more contemplate
Joanna’s line of dance
6.
or other Joanna
tragedies: uncontrolled
lowering of backward
step, poor feet trapped under
Joanna’s rear bumper.
Her shoulder balance wrong:
our strongest theory.
The balance will not be
corrected. The balance
is always created
alone. And all of his long
life, Mr. Allen had
but one partner, named
Helen – or Helena –
but no wife. Helena’s
sense of the tempo was
so perfect, and perfect
her impact, her recorrection.
In films, in photographs
of them, she is the day
of his day- light. Shining
Helena – Helena.
There is a test at the
end, and one must show one’s
7.
respect, one must. One must
actually not reverse,
and one must not progress
simply. The leader will
follow and will trust how
follower trusts and leads.
One who will follow needs
to give the appearance
of no will, but must – on
the lines of dance – quiet
(quiet as the moon ) – pull.
Leader must heed partner,
within him gyroscope-
like smoothness responding
to rising, falling waves
that roll-curl and that rip.
Mid-measure they have stopped
dancing. They clasp hands in
near-distance closeness that
waltzes. Oh, Joanna,
Helena, how our dour
instructors have becalmed
us, waiting for stillness
in our hearts before they
8.
will break the dance silence.
We do not, of course, of
course not, look close at them.
We know well enough that
our two professionals
transfer and transfer, that
neither one rests himself
on both his feet, ever.
“These few boards are – are an
ocean,” says Mr. Allen.
“An ocean,” says Mr.
Trautman, voice glistening,
and he says, “Re- member –
here – here you are dancing
conversion – not – tell them –”
“—destruction,” says Mr.
Allen. “Not destruction.”
One turns the other now
with almost Viennese
boldness – they fly free, our
instructors – they arrive
at transitions with their arms
sliding down and off each
other – their hands clasp – one
9.
goes under the other’s
arm and he rotates left –
one counter-draws so that his
lover’s strong shoulders press
against his chest, so his
instructor’s head inclines
closer to instructor’s
face, and the double-hinge
of their hands recapitulates
the wordless spin that will
make us learn how dancers
could always say more about
what was, what is – if words
were what a dancer does.
Kevin "Mc" McIlvoy has been teaching creative writing for over forty years and is the former Editor-in-Chief of the national literary magazine, Puerto del Sol. His published works include A Waltz (1981), The Fifth Station (1989), Little Peg (1996), Hyssop (1998), The Complete History of New Mexico (2005), 57 Octaves Below Middle C (2017), and At the Gate of All Wonder (2018). His novel, One Kind Favor, will be published by WTAW Press (wtawpress@gmail.com) in 2021.