Kamtcha is the fearless one.
She has the trickster's smile.
She is eleven and thin
with long black hair.
In the courtyard of Catholic Charities Housing,
she's trying to pick my pockets.
I look her in the eyes.
Take my hands.
The other children back away.
They don't know this game.
She steps forward, puts her hands in mine.
I wink, hold her by the wrists
Now run.
I nod to the right.
She takes three steps and I launch
her in the air. I lower my weight,
raise my arms, and pull her up
and to to me as I spin her in circles,
faster and faster, at my chest level,
higher than her head, parrallel
to the ground.
On her fifth revolution, she yells
in exultation, "I'm a ballerina!"
In awe, the other children,
the boys and the girls, shout,
"I want to be a ballerina, too!"