ballet Dalila Melkumova
mom’s hand lukewarm, impassive heat, pushes me on the back (all sweaty in black) towards the ballet. I map the floor in music’s haze, size five pointe shoes tracing hurtful circles, tender, invisible crescents, a numb passé. for a second, I don’t suck my stomach in. I succumb to thrilly polka; its bright red melody is sinking into my hair, right through my skin, my whole body filled with lively, dotty sensation, until the r e m o t e control lands mercilessly under my ribs. I almost puke. my knees that once passé-d with ease turn weak
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(traitors. there is no beauty without pain). the teacher stares. “you should look thin.” my stomach shrinks. I shrink. the remote’s button pressed. polka starts playing again. it’s stuck in a waltz-like loop of young ballerinas. when I’m back home, it’s bruised begging hands and mom’s aloof eyes: “it can’t be that bad. exaggerations.” I stay in the array of white buns in torn mesh and pale, scared faces. we tell lies as a gift for mother’s day. these days are now away, for I am in the states. but I still fear tutus and buns, remotes like guns, unaired hairspray. I won’t rebound. I won’t be found at the ballet.
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