my younger sister
had this ballerina you could
wind up on a plastic pedestal;
she wore roughly worn
pointe shoes, a pink tutu and bow,
a perfectly set bun,
and more beauty than
the evening sky could sew;
two golden strands on either
side of her head spoofed out, as if
the devious imp from
the land of crooked hand gestures
had spun it himself;
i'd hear the magical symphony
play from that box, when
my sister used
to dance around in her pajamas
every night after seven
o'clock; the repeating tune
drove our parents crazy, but it
set me on fire,
as musical notes did
pirouettes in my ears and
composed something beautiful
i suddenly admired;
now, i don't know if this was by chance,
or the universe pulling strings,
but i saw the same
elegance in you when
the melody in your eyes twirled
a little thing;
it grew louder and louder
each time we locked a gaze,
making my instincts
fall short to escaping
a blushing display;
your silence spoke numbers
in invisible waves, so every curious
thought possessed by myself would not
just not fade away; when
we parted paths, you to your
room and me to my own,
i always felt robbed
of an arrow that was stolen
from love's nearly notched bow;
you sang each night without an audience
to please, but i was too
scared to knock
on your door, to must some courage,
and just take the lead;
and so, from the hallway, both
ears savored that voice,
of fragile, of hollow;
of strength, of rejoice;
your porcelain figure must have
been waltzing for hours,
not realizing i wished to step inside
your heart and watch the
lyrical showers
