waiting

(Waiting. Pastel on paper by Edgar Degas, 1880–82)

ribbons, wrapped around ankles, heels, toes.
glittery natron, twisted inside the silky threads.
Pinch your skin with a thorny reluctance, releasing
red letters turned blue into the carpet.
which ones?
lifeblood, jaded rabbits.

the drawn sunlight draws sandy lines across your hair
static warmth crumpling in the dry air. but
to breathe is not to live,
to end is not to die,
to wait is not to calcify.

yet stay stuck, in the wrappings
of mother's neat circus top
--yes, I know these tears are not my own--
but ripping your fingernails to stubs,
or wearing your blood on your lips
changes not your china skin,
smooth glass under the chalk,
strong arms under the shackles.

bring it together, tie it in with
blue sashes,
the edgy tension of the wires curving the bow.

the charred edges of the taffeta you've worn
since fifth grade rise
in fumes.

say, secondhand smoke isn't intentional
so inhale the leftovers of your snowy trim.
cough. repeat.

a little shorter but the dress is still dance code
look, the little blue ribbon:
sky, the firmament highlights it
lightning, dazzling violet blue
more than those eyes