What if Ballet splits her bunhead open…
BY EMMALY WIEDERHOLT; ILLUSTRATION BY TRACEY TURNER
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,
Chiseled,
And unapologetic for all the gore left in her wake.
