She pirouettes
adorned in a dress
of black gossamer,

Spinning with blade
in hand to music only
she hears.

Flame red hair sweeps the air,
flinging outward, as
drops of crimson
drip from the tip
to the cold hard floor;
knives held tight by
delicate fingers.

Her hands move with
the intensity of the allegro.
Alive, brisk, and deadly.

The sharpness of her tools
keep up with her demands
of dissection and delving.

The other dancers
fall before her
as if in silent repose.

Arabesque to glissade,
her strong legs coupe
across the floor,
she cuts and cuts and cuts
and does a sourbresaut
like a cat jumping
onto her final partner
in this ensemble of now
only one.

She seeks his heart
as the point punches through.
Death follows
Yet still it beats
as she holds it,
Still it beats
as she takes a bite.
Still it beats
as she rises from
her grand plie.

and takes a bow
to the crowd
from
center stage.

By Philip Wardlow
http://philipwardlow.com/