Saturday, April 16, 2005

Free At Last

Enchanté, my dear, he says as he bows
Mostly for the benefit of the crowds
I grip his hand but his mind is somewhere else
I fail to reach his granite heart
He fails to see my secret places
So off he goes, elsewhere for his pleasure

Melancholy advances. I push it back.
I am at peace. I feel no anger.
I have felt no hunger for decades
I hear loud, raucous laughter
At the door. His comrades have arrived
They barely acknowledge me

The door slams shut behind them
And I free again, me again
I am left, solitary but purified
Untainted, I find myself regressing
To childhood ballet classes and I become
A prima ballerina, performing pirouettes
As I slide across the oak floor of the hall.


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