The coast is clear, hope
Planted with her back against the ivory walls
Fingers grip molding
edge of precipice
Hoping chocolate remnants
stains the corners
Sweat slipping down her back
Pressing into scalloped shirt
Worry stains
Pleats on her skirt lined like soldiers at attention
Proper even in the act of
Defiance
Bright white socks
precise frills brushing small ankles
Pristine, Swan Lake
Glissade, a whisper from memory
Echoing into the long hallway
Moving quickly
Pale neck twisting back and forth
Surveillance
A doorway looms
plié to jeté, adage
To pause
No one is here – finally
She races through the back doors
Into light
Bursting like a beaver from a dam
She breathes in sunshine
One living existence in this whole place
Madame’s voice, shrill
a grey cloud, obtuse
Your skin will burn
Layered Fragments, Becoming Whole 