At the Mad Yak, a dancer
is contained in costumes
designed to make her
quaint and carry with her
a people who are of some other
world that might have been
but is not now. Her hands
are hidden by the long sleeves
of her costume, and her feet are
bound by steps written for tourists
in an idiom of occupation.

The audience is written
into the dance as well, Chinese on
one side, Euro-Americans
on the other, Tibetan
guides in back. I am
mesmerized by the authentic dance
of her eyes, weary beyond
words, which speak sadness
and will not be extinguished.

11 June 2004
Lhasa

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