[Fiction] Ballerina


Justine practices her plié in her converted basement. She mops the sprung floor herself and dusts the barre. The mirror reflects only one lithe figure. She never invites anyone down for a pas de deux, but she always smiles at her reflection. She thinks she is too late for the career of a prima ballerina, but her full heart is as grand as one.




Two eyes watch upon the branch
And small talons cling as a wind sways the tree
A black-bearded specimen of avian fauna
Wonders as I pace in spiraling circles
Spitting freshly chewed grass:
An indecipherable human mating dance