Friday, March 3, 2017

Off Stage Right

The year had trickled by like a blue cord,
Jasmine’s dark hair having grown
another four inches,
thick and shiny,
it was bound up in a bun with ribbons
and bobby pins every afternoon.

In the cold day, the ballet
seeped like liquid violet
across the nutcracker floor:
slowly, the studio—
one mirror after another—
caught the fading reflection…
one, two, three, pirouette—
in miniscule the refraction
plays an aging suite—
the classroom an echo,
in black and white—the note
a second tilt to toe bent—
one right arm after another,
one ribbon black, the other pink—
in the light, one carbon copy per minuet—
alone and still, the movement
just a tiny gold adept step
into the soul of arabesque.

I would die for the Red Shoes,
Jasmine thought—and only
the ignorant don’t know
that art is worth more than one body,
and blissfully they turn away.