Ballet: A Poem In Haikus

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we sew our slippers
as we sit in perfect splits,
perfectly poised toes.
i feel the music--
like a white rose feels the wind,
it is meant to be.
i am a tool
for the director, just one
more sculpture to place.
a pirouette to
arabesque-- i lose passé
well, a good day.
music in me, he
holds my body with tight grip.
my tutu shudders.
pointe shoes circle as
one, simultaneously,
rond de jambe in sync.
callused feet beneath
us, we are feminine, strong
prima ballerinas.
Tchaikovsky is all
i heard then, all i can now,
ballet never dies.





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