The Ballerina

Long ago there lived a girl with long livid locks of sable, Whose vivid avid amber eyes derived, it seems, from fable. Her tiny tendons tied to nimble bones to each limber muscle enhanced, By the hours and hours of practice made perfect with her sport of dance. Her mother Mary had adored her, as if her bones were porcelain, Draping her daughter and dressing her, like a postured doll for ornament. Father Joe endured her, seldom applauded the athletic acrobats, Of gymnastics she practiced in her bedroom within the cold attic. One day she claimed "I'm done with mirrors, may this be the last, Of poising pirouettes en pointe," while posed before a cheval glass. With that she hung her tutu atop the highest shelf, In a closet where now the ballerina has left her ego's self. Now she dances not with poles, nor mirrors covering the wall, But to rock and roll and hip-hop pop, while unafraid to fail or fall.