I take my place
in Degas,
one knee bent, to
slide my foot into pink leather.
I wish I had ribbons and a tutu.

I walk over to the barre,
stand in a line with
Pauline, Petrova and Posy,
but the self I face in the mirror,
is a grown-up woman.

My head turns into
Coppelia, a line traced
through generations.
My toes point with
Bull and Bussell,
Pavlova, and Guillem,
almost.

I plié and rise,
and I am in a
pirouette of dancing
bliss.  The landing is askew;
I am alight.

‘And one and two
and three and four’
echoes all around
me and all around the
world.  A hundred little girls
and companies of swans and mice
and courtiers and peasants.

Did someone just call me a
ballerina?  Oh!