Dalila Melkumova ‘21 Ballet

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 (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.

Sex Ed

Mel Cort

she squirmed underneath him nothing if not a little bored his arms slackening next to her ears as he tried lord knows he tried and she realized that if she squeezed her eyes shut and ignored his raggedy breath on her neck, she could almost for a second think. So she thought of the woman at the whole foods a week ago in the soft yellow t-shirt (the color of the pillow under her head) (no don’t think of that right now) and baggy overalls that pooled at her ankles, which always seemed to be moving, flitting, exploring. she thought of the way she smiled at the cashier (as he whispered something detestable) and her hand crept down her stomach, her wrist wrestling out of his jealous grip, and thought of her brown curls and spray of freckles across her nose. he tried, for the millionth time, but for the first—so did she and he deflated murmuring his pride or brags as they were before she politely asked him to not spend the night.

“Saturday” Lucy Bowman Digital Photography 10” by 15”