The Red Dance
There was a girlwho danced in the city that night,that April 22nd,all along the Charles River.
It was as if one hundred men were watchingor do I mean the one hundred eyes of God?
The yellow patches in the sycamoresglowed like miniature flashlights.
The shadows, the skin of themwere ice cubes that flashedfrom the red dress to the roof.
Mile by mile along the Charles she dancedpast the benches of lovers,past the dogs pissing on the benches.
She had on a red, red dressand there was a small rainand she lifted her face to itand thought it part of the river.
And cars and trucks went byon Memorial Drive.
And the Harvard students in the brickhallowed houses studied Sappho in cement rooms.
And this Sappho danced on the danced and danced and danced.
It was a death dance.
The Larz Anderson bridge wore its lightsand many cars went by,and a few students strolling undertheir Coop umbrellas.
And a black man who asked this Sappho the time,the time, as if her watch spoke.
Words were turning into grease,and she said, "Why do you lie to me?"And the waters of the Charles were beautiful,sticking out in many colored tonguesand this strange Sappho knew she would enter the lightsand be lit by them and sink into them.
And how the end would come -it had been foretold to her -she would aspirate swallowing a fish,going down with God's first creaturedancing all the way.
Anne Sexton
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