Jane Avril, by Bob Bradshaw

Jane Avril, by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (France) 1893

    Jane Avril

    She is like many abused women
    who have found their way 
    to the Montmartre.

    Can-can dancers with scandalous
    histories are as common
    as black stockings.  

    Aren’t good names anyway 
    fake constructions,
    like the papier-mache elephant

    at the Moulon Rouge?
    Aren’t we all a mix of good 
    and bad, like the clubs’ customers

    brokers and bankers 
    rubbing elbows with criminals?
    Jane is no different;

    yet a dignity clings to her
    as she walks the streets after shows
    with that midget Lautrec.

    A “beauty” while she dances,
    on the street she strides by
    without a glance,

    her gaunt long face like a horse’s 
    —with the same skinny legs
    of one bred for the track.

    How Lautrec, with his jockey
    sized body, dreams
    of riding her!

    Does he drink more to screw up
    his courage, or to give excuse
    for doing what he does best

    —observing?  Still, 
    we rarely see her talking
    to anyone except Lautrec.

    We love how she dances--
    in a frenzy, her dress
    and petticoats leaping up    

    like waves hitting breakers
    again and again.  Yet her face
    no longer matches her dance;

    there is no expression--
    her dark eyes like coals
    that can’t light.

    Her left leg kicks high,
    her right arm lifting it
    mid-air, holding it 

    in that position far longer
    than she can maybe lift 
    her spirits these days. 

    Jane goes home 
    to a small room, a celebrity 
    —but without money

    to save her from old age 
    and the streets. What 
    does an aging woman turn to 

    in desperation for a job?
    Sewing or prostitution.
    Will Lautrec help?
​
    His posters bring her fame
    but he’ll soon turn 
    to other subjects--

    and her posters will vanish 
    like the aging dancers
    of the Montmartre.

​Bob Bradshaw

Bob Bradshaw is recently retired.  He is a fan of the Stones. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is. He is searching for the perfect hammock to spend retirement in.  Recent work of his can be found at Autumn Sky Poetry Daily and Sea to Sky Review.