by Christopher Barnes

The inkstain of a cramp under a white tutu
Is hidden like a murder.
Restringing waves of hair
She is seaweed moving
Sideways through a windless clearing
Trying to imagine the agony
Of a crab at 100 degrees.
The skull within the smile
Is overcooked around the nose
With blotches like orangeade.
A dancer at rest is out of her element.
Gesticulating on starched white lines
Emanating from points
She melts into the mirror.
Hearing his voice
As it thunders through the glass
I only need a line, she shouts.

Dancer by Christopher Barnes

© Copyright 2006. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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