The Bedside (Published in Sieva Magazine)

A ballet, set to a softly wilting meter

For she is upon the stage

As though there were hands to guide

These limbs of opal, and porcelain 

Some distant intrigue is within this audience

Who watches as the scarlet inkmark

Or a decorated thing, descends 

By her Polish heartstrings 

And so there is an orchestra of metal men

Little soldiers, in golden brass 

Who raise a hand in distant favor

But must perform, nevertheless

Oh! And she is turning

She is an involuting thing

Too much a terrible beauty

So stricken, as though wounded

Yet, it is like she has been pierced

Struck through with some bloodied arrow

Made a torn and sallow figure 

Revolving in this sorrowful moment

And if the child at their bedside

Who is already upon the wings of sleep

Were to observe her as she dances

All would be made certain again

For then, and in that moment only

The child would know to sing out

And she, who is still turning

Would weep in tears of love and triumph.