Dancing In the middle of the class on the floor, dancing suddenly I remember the child. O where is my child? A voice breaks through the air which only I hear but everyone stops dancing. Am I not barren? Music urges me on. My feet, head, heart bear the stone which keeps beating. My child is not here. My child is not dancing. Dancing I carry the barren. JOAN MICHELSON Flesh from Gold:  Poetry about Motherhood London, England