Ballet Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

there in the pale blue tulle of the
mid afternoon performance
I imagine it this way
sipping tea from the rose painted teacups
I and my soul and in my former demeanor
rose with a splash of Spanish orange
to Segovia, say or Granados
the corp de ballet lingers en pointe
as the moment too fragile to exist
in this life folds inward, an unusual rose
tea rose, implausible protoge
resisting the rains and the reign of shadows
so shall it be in a painting, not Degas
where you cannot see the strain of practice
but only the illusion
and my pink shadow flares up for a moment
remembering former things
recondite, a little delusional
singing into twilight everything else
and the stars.
mary angela douglas 8 september 2023