I called you once, said your name
Twice, because in front of myself,
Above my tea, secluded
On the wood of the piano top
Stood you—a proud ballerina,
Hollow and forgot,
Such that as the sun, which had left
For so long, pushed its rays
Through the empty sculpture, behind,
On the magnolia, on the suburban paint
Was cast your figure, complete
With a tight bun and heart shaped brow.
And as I called you, the projection was
Bold, you had been there with me,
As anything could have been if cast
In bronze—a small ancient goddess or
A spider crab, but no, they cast you,
As a ballerina.
I had fed for so long on
That body, that upon the sun being
Broken, by a figure at the window,
I was glad to have met you again
In that sunburst, no more
Alone.
