These are human stories,
the food chain, so we try
not to remember Gargantua,
or swans wiping their tail
feathers in bullrushes where
Moses was hidden, making
his holy law, Thou shalt not kill.
Pavlova had red beads, drops of blood
sewn in her swan costume, but in fact
the original story was strangulation,
a woman crushed in a brutal hand.
No wonder she danced on her toes,
fear raising her up her the way we
lift a frightened chid out of panic,
her dress also making the rustling
sound of notes played one at a time,
footsteps on the mandolin,
running from death with
beautiful port de bras, but
none as heartbreaking as
the ballerino, man in a dress
screaming, “I can’t breathe!”
just as the music ends.
