|Danseuse ajustant sa brettelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas|
Monday, November 11, 2013
©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson
It's music I remember most of all.
Soaring strains of winged Tchaikovsky
brought to earth by steady beat
of wooden cane against a parquet floor.
The ballet mistress, mean with added weight,
despised her torpid flesh and tortured ours.
Through us she danced, each arabesque
a thrust against our firm yet fragile borders.
I foiled each foray, held her off with
grand battement, changement, changement, changement.
Her face was rouge, piqued by my piqué turns.
She chastised us for nibbling a cruller,
gorged herself on crepes and jam.
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