The inkstain of a cramp under a white tutu
Is hidden like a murder.
 
Restringing waves of hair
She is seaweed moving
Sideways through a windless clearing
Trying to imagine the agony
Of a crab at 100 degrees.
 
The skull within the smile
Is overcooked around the nose
With blotches like orangeade.
 
A dancer at rest is out of her element.
 
Gesticulating on starched white lines
Emanating from points
She melts into the mirror.
 
Hearing his voice
As it thunders through the glass
“I only need a line,” she shouts.