The Ribbon Dancers

The circle gathers silently to warm up
Our barre, stained couches beneath landscapes for sale
Our stretches, whispered prayers
Our tutus, loose smocks of pink

Some only make fleeting eye contact
Others hug and clasp hands with strangers made sisters
We glance through magazines of airbrushed impossibilities
Who look not like themselves, but are also one of eight.

The music box rewinds, the dancer resumes her endless twirl
Our minds repeat the routines.  A cough, a turned page.
The curtain parts, and each takes a dreaded breath in the spotlight
For whose turn will it be, this day, to emerge a ribbon dancer?

We pirouette, we leap, the ribbon spirals and embraces
Our scars, our hair, our memories, wrenching pain, absolute beauty
We are everywoman, we are goddesses of grace
We are fragile as mist and titanium strong

We link arms, ribbons floating and zig-zagging
We have our resolve, our rage, and our knives
Our collective endures, we will sleep well this night,
And we stand, brazen, to confront life’s worst interruption

It will not take our mothers.
It will not take our sisters.
It will not take our daughters.
And it will not take us.


Laura S., 10/9/2016