The Dancer (Poetry)


She turns away, lungs filling with burning air,

With one last look of longing the door abruptly shuts.

She follows her breath to the door,

The once intimate room now cold,

The bar chilled and the floor rough.

Anxiety steals away her breath.

It’s the raw simplicity:

She is just a number,

Just a height,

Just a weight.

The soft scent of their anticipation lingers in the now empty room

One girl stands at the ballet bar,


So small in the vast studio space.

Her eyes flick open,

Beholding her mirrored reflection,

Permanent, taunting, and teasing

With a hope leaving muscles to quiver in anticipation,

Feet slipping into a natural first position.

Turning away, she rests her fingertips gently,

Teasingly, hand finding and gliding along

The steely touch of the bar.

Senses guiding her foot against the grain of wood.

A sharp intake of breath –

As one toe at a time acquaints

With the smooth hard wood floor.

It starts with a prickle of anticipation as

The room beckons you forward.

*Originally published in Incendies Magazine


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