Corps de Ballet

Freeze, oh fragile army!
Your sharp edges are worn out,
Your perfect lines are a puppet show

for empty seats.

Now, scatter!

For your cancerous masters
Are dead men walking.
They have nothing to offer but dirty hands

and expired currency.

Breathe.

Your years of child labor
Will not go unnoticed
Your tutus do not cover

your bleeding feet anyways


Now, listen.

And not to me

but to your own rhythm
For your drum sticks are made of feathers,
And mine are of four inch heels


Let us wave the white flag
And laugh at each others war make up
Then, could we waltz together

naked in peace?

2011