“The Star” by Edgar Degas

I think I know what she’s feeling,

divertissement

arabesque en arriere

leaning out toward

a dream of herself

and not caring

if anyone is watching.

She dances alone,

skirts fluttering,

toes sore,

only a beautiful mess

of blended colors.

A man steps out

from behind the stage,

pas seul

from behind the shadows,

intentions unknown.

But I notice

that her foot is not quite pointed

somehow, from loss of concentration,

but her ribbons still stream

through

pas de bourree

pirouette

tour en l’air

perfected

by the stillness

in her eyes.

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