She tiptoes across the stage,
blurred silence in suspended sostenuto,
gathering speed as she chaîné-s
in her battered pointe shoes.
Darkness and dust cringe in
creaking floorboards –
Nobody will look for her here.
Torn flesh opens walls, pirouettes
and grand jetés trembling with
heavy vibrations
of
Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky,
throbbing beats consumed by
crescendo-ing melodies
Stars shatter across
Roman canvas,
al fresco breeze whistling
past shards of stained glass.
Her angel-winged feet
tether strength and tranquil grace
in fouetté and arabesque
The smoldering spotlight tickles
her rose flush face, glowing
in vertebrae with every firebird crackle
of
scratched phonographic records
Nothing but lilac scent
grips the edges of her skirt.
Sweetness of sweat
melts
down wax temples and
off wax shoelaces.
Eyes glisten and twinkle
at her every move
The celestial volatility
of
the arch in her back
engulfs paroxysmal passion –
perfect lipstick and slashed knees
metamorphose into plastic as her
first dance intertwines
with her last