Adagio

I fear his touch, gentle

at the hollow of my back.

And as he effortlessly lifts me above this dark,

wood-planked floor, I shudder, knowing he will feel

every spike of spine and ridge of rib.

Tight stretched fabric

conceals the public premiere

of my scars, demands that I become

always lighter,

though in the air I feel

weightless.

As I peer out into the blinding darkness,

I know that I am but a doll

on which their entranced eyes play.

And though I am the epitome of grace,

no synchronized sashay or perfected plie

can disguise the imbalance within me.

Ribbons of ringlets disobediently slip

from the woven bun atop my head

as he lowers me

toward the floor,

a temporary grounding.

To observers I am merely body parts

sewn together into human form,

spinning endlessly into a dizzying whirlwind

of thoughtless admiration.

As hands collide, composing

elitist cacophony, I push this automatic

acknowledgement from the measures

of the music.

From all those years of preparation,

I bear the ravages of sores and calluses on

flat feet permanently set

in second position.

I am an actress with an audience

of one, pretending that

those who spent a mere

hour’s pay to see this production

are unable to sense

my expired passion.

Still I choose to linger here in this

orbit of monotony, and as I pirouette

in perpetual motion, my body

sheds its plastic skin, and slowly

I become the dancer

I once was, before stiff point-shoes replaced

pale pink slippers, before time was measured in

the ticking precision of each beat, before

the expectation of who I would become

mirrored my reflection.

Kourtney Kinchen