Les Ingénues 

by Madeline Weisbeck



               After Edgar Degas’ painting Dancers in Blue





A crisp foliage of hems,

poignant blues—stretched

peacock plumes the pointe shoes

await a matinee. 



The surveyor, the artist

who glances, who studies

to capture such arrays of

feathered fabric in

vibrant cascades. 



The speckled illusion of

commotion clean across quarters of

the off-stage. Ballerinas, tinges of

panic, fretting ever so— confined

in that tight space.

 

Degas does revoke caution, oiled

fingers tap, brush soaked muted

mirage, stalks from the wings—

giving an impression of purity

ringing raw. 



Hidden amongst seas of fog

and haze is candor. He renders

this, easing as a voyeur.

Wishing not to interrupt on

the sirens in lounge.





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