What if Ballet splits her bunhead open…


What if Ballet splits her bunhead open

And the only place left to turn is out?

Swans eat bugs and swallows swarm the lake

And the only thing left to swallow is an atrophied tendu.

And plie and one two three four…

Are we practicing target practice or range?

Or is the practice range even big enough?

What if Ballet splits her bunhead open

And her calf muscles don’t fit into any jeans

Because she is an Amazon,

A giantess.

Her feathery caress

A practice in duress.

Watch her rest and arrest,

The only place left to fly

Is out of that damn coquettish cage

She built for herself.

Skidding up the Marley,

Bruised, burned, breathing hard,

She is a monster.

She is the monster of the lake.

She splits her bunhead open and the lake dries up

And her troupe of monstrous swans

Careen like mighty eagles into the sunset.

Maybe she was always an eagle after all:

Turned out,


And unapologetic for all the gore left in her wake.