Happy Saturday! I’ve got another poem for you. One of these days, I’d like to write something light-hearted and funny, but today I’ll settle for something a little different.
***
Music Box
She stands on tiptoes
on the highest pedestal,
turns delicately,
one slender arm reaching,
gleaming,
for the void,
the other
stuck in a graceful arc
above the well-placed locks
on her head.
Her tutu is crooked,
but what can she do?
If she moves, she’ll smudge the paint.
A bony hand twists
the gears beneath her pointed
toes, turns them clockwise
and waits for the showcase,
dancing.
She winks once
and sways
before twisting her gut,
before puckering her
ruby lips.
The song is long-winded,
it plays ever on.
She is quite out of tune.
Her stage is a round
box, she stands in the middle,
sighs oh so sweetly.
She curls her finger and trips,
gasping,
over the
laces, strings
of her ballet shoes and,
quite unmusically, she
gives a cry.
The gears are now slowing.
Her dance is coming
to its unimpressive end.
She listens for the notes
that mean she must stop moving,
looks down at her feet.
If she were deaf, then she would –
And if –
Then maybe –
She could be –
But no. She must listen
for the tiny bells to
sing again.
The bony hand stops.
She too must stop.
And she wishes she was deaf.
Photo by Frederick Tubiermont on Unsplash
Rachel Sandell 