Les Danseuses
by Joseph Hesch
The dancers I’ve known
hardly ever showed much joy,
except while moving to the music.
It seemed to soften the diamond
hardness of their bodies and faces,
like they were appearing on Degas' stage,
all shadows and smeared pastel smiles.
But, when the music stopped,
and you saw them on the street
away from their cosmetic camouflage,
their armor of knits and tulle,
and their funneled electric suns,
you understood who they really were—
heroically tiny, ambivalently starving,
radiantly tired, and gloriously pained girls,
in conflicted relationships
with their art.
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