She waits alone on a purple stage, cut
-out flat, white and black, lacking
a dimension. She waits for shape,
for music, for lightening to spark a pulse.
Her icy skin trussed in silk and lace,
satin pumps on lifeless feet.
There’s a feather in her hair,
twisted into careful curls. She’s cold
on center stage. Acid whispers
in the wings like sour dough rising.
Her fan flairs and she begins to dance.
2 thoughts on “Burlesque”
That sour dough rising description–I could smell it baking in my house! Such well done work here. And thank you for your support for my scholarship vote in my last article! https://elleguyence.wordpress.com/2018/03/02/please-vote-im-a-scholarship-finalist/
You’re welcome! And thanks for your kind comments.
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