Degas' Ghost

En pointe. Center stage front.
Her tutu is a plumed chrysanthemum,
delicately balanced on dual stems.
She traces the air with pale fingertips,
as if to memorize it as woman--
not the swan she soon will become.

We flocked to see Nureyev that night,
expected to grow damp with rapture
from his fierce Neapolonic leaps,
head tilted cockily in the fury
of his futile heroic dance.

We only saw her...
This flower. This reluctant swan.
Degas white, pinned
under a dimming spotlight.
Fluttering and lifting.
Dipping and fading.
Then, abruptly, the vacant stage.

Pris Campbell
©2005

Art: The Star by Degas

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