dancer

the heel throbs against the stone
each time she lifts and falls-
ball, change, ball, change,

she can feel the blood congealing
inside her white ballet shoes- a drying itch
between her toes like leftover grass and mud.

she is afraid the blood will run through
but her feet tell different tales,
calloused and thick, sculptors of a moveable clay.

her womb has tightened year after year,
a childless sacrifice to the fairy lights.
under which she imagines she feels extra half-seconds

in a spotlight lift or caress
of her dancing partner whose wife
has middle aged pudge and two red-faced boys.

pas de bourrée, pique tombé, pique tombé,
fall into the roaring applause,
silenced in the nightly tub of epsom salts.

she is a twenty-seven year old menopausal
divorcee who only dances to tell stories
for the wide-eyed children.

Reviews

[Butterflymom]

This is beautiful, very original, and creative. I enjoyed the flow, the description and the imagery. This was very well done. Thank you so much for sharing this!

[Tallulah]

Wow i loved this. The wording is amazing. Dancing is my passion and this was great tribute to dancing. I love it Great job, Good description