Ballet

Our minds so softly bend toward the
wooden floor we own, each fraying
petal curling like fingers out of a
daffodil. Each breath is voided as
the swooning, evanescent walls of our
house cave in, and the cat stretches
and the dog falls asleep.

So soon after my depotting the flora-
webs and gritted dirt fall from my
pointed, retro painted toes and the
wind licks my sides as curtains.

My legs stand beneath me but my torso
is at ease. When I spin it lights the
hurt in me like wicks, and the pain grows
as fire on said curtains.