Ballantyne Ballerina, Post-Modern on a Friday Night with her Sisters

This is something past

hip-hop,

less tricky than Bolshoi

the loose hips that only

little girls have,

those bones know no tension

virgin middle-class  chassées

deep relevant plies

knees that bend invisibly

so buried are they

in the rhythm of invisible songs shared

among tall sisters

who come silently behind her,

 

their wrists pale under streetlights, dark-haired, daddy-faced mirrors,

relative antenae

sensing the need for touch down

 

no sequins, no feathers

 

and they all glide angled across the blackness

of tar,

toward a car

and home.