by Darah Wolf

I think I know what she’s feeling,
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
pas de bourree
tour en l’air
by the stillness
in her eyes.