“The Star” by Edgar Degas

I think I know what she’s feeling,


arabesque en arriere

leaning out toward

a dream of herself

and not caring

if anyone is watching.

She dances alone,

skirts fluttering,

toes sore,

only a beautiful mess

of blended colors.

A man steps out

from behind the stage,

pas seul

from behind the shadows,

intentions unknown.

But I notice

that her foot is not quite pointed

somehow, from loss of concentration,

but her ribbons still stream


pas de bourree


tour en l’air


by the stillness

in her eyes.

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