ballerina skids in a rain-wet street,
slippers shucking against the gloss graveled
pane of an asphalt arena. knees glissade,
toe POINTED perfect until the bone glides through,
the angle now more ripe than she’d ever dreamed.
and still-
she is exquisite-
(it aches) the curves of her arms
growing like moss on the sinew beneath.

the audience fades forward, lurching in
phantom leaps, backs ARCHED and mouths dripping
with oil dregs. their tongues roil iridescent in
rainbow spit, but still she listens.
she listens,
oh but she shouldn’t.

and she descends,
pale ankle slurring against the natural
swirl of its TURNED OUT toes as,
delicately,
blood spools down drooping ribbons.
her chin whispers up from the shadows
pooling in the hollow of her throat,
juts forward, proud, SMILING,
and ballerina says as she shudders,
slopes of her body slumping, “i can dance with broken feet”,
but now she can’t seem to rise from her knees.