by Darah Wolf
I think I know what she’s feeling,
divertissement
arabesque en arriere
leaning out toward
a dream of herself
and not caring
if anyone is watching.
She dances alone,
skirts fluttering,
toes sore,
only a beautiful mess
of blended colors.
A man steps out
from behind the stage,
pas seul
from behind the shadows,
intentions unknown.
But I notice
that her foot is not quite pointed
somehow, from loss of concentration,
but her ribbons still stream
through
pas de bourree
pirouette
tour en l’air
perfected
by the stillness
in her eyes.