The Last Dance

The Dancer’s body is simply the 
              luminous manifestation of the soul. “
— Isadora Duncan, 1877 - 1927

he will come knocking on your window,
pointe shoes in hand,
waiting for you to cross the floor.

the spotlight, once your sun, now burns hot rays into your skin
as you release the bar and step off from the wall,
watching as he arabesques as you assemblé,
waiting for your cue as the world’s eyes look from cameras above you.
their praise seeps out of the velvet curtains
and their roars bang off of the drums as he takes your hand,
his boney fingers inching their way up from your wrist to your elbow,
your knees bent and ready to jump erect at any moment, but you go limp—
you fall to the floor, your body center stage as the crowd cheers
and cries your name, begging for more as you lie lifeless before the curtain.
Death takes your bow. The white, long sleeves of his shift draping over him
as he bends forward over your body, and your eyes, bubbling in the holes of your skull
watch as he kneels down to take your hand, raising it high above yourself
as your elbow bends and your wrist simply dangles in his grip.
the crowd is victim to your demise,
but still cry in the name of an encore.