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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