...Tombé...

Fouetté rond 

de jambe en tournant. 

Or rather…  

  to spin. 

To spin     in place. 

To spin in place and yet 

  not lose control. 

To maintain a certain equilibrium

  by way of that quick turn 

      which precedes the body. 

The whip of the head. 

The rapid rotation and 

precise act    of spotting. 

The eye within that vortex 

finding one thing to hold in sync. 

Something stable that 

the mind can lock onto, 

which    in this case, 

happens to be some 

decrepit old man 

sitting in the corner with 

gnarled hand furiously 

pumping away at his crotch. 

She could not think of a single 

prima    ballerina assoluta 

who might find 

this sort of adoration    flattering. 

Not one. 

Granted… 

She herself was not a prima ballerina, 

but this was not to say she did not 

periodically find herself capable of a 

grand pas de deux piece de resistance. 

Admittedly, her chaînés déboulés 

maneuver would be done down a 

long narrow stage with 

sporadic floor to ceiling poles, 

and yes, she would of course be 

   absolutely naked but, 

other than that, 

what was her execution of 

cabriole and    entrechat 

if not the ultimate of    bravura? 

Yet who of those men 

skittering away 

in the receding dark with 

  antenni erect 

would appreciate the rigid aplomb 

of her exquisite arabesque? 

They    liked the splits. 

Indeed, they’d sit a la pool o’ drool, 

dumfounded in mutual 

  mute appreciation 

of a really good split, and 

it need not even occur 

  at the apex of a leap 

to get their antenni     throbbing. 

There was a time    when 

the only appreciation that mattered 

was the smile that might form 

on her father’s face when 

she twirled her lithe body 

  into his outstretched arms. 

She in that blue tutu he had bought her.

She in her pink leotard. 

She there standing toe en pointe 

as he placed a delicate kiss 

upon dimpled cheek. 

To don a tutu. 

There prior to the dance. 

To attire oneself in costume. 

This as opposed to 

the explicit act of disrobement. 

That she step out upon a stage 

  completely naked—

herewith     now considered 

the utmost of refined entertainment. 

To point her toe just so… 

Who here   gave a 

Fouetté rond de fuck about that? 

These cultured pearls 

crushed ‘neath cloven hoof. 

“Tendu”: A balletic term. 

To stretch the movement 

  to its furthest extent. 

Who here cared about that? 

“Ballon”: To bounce. 

The perceived lightness of the movement. 

Yes, well… 

There in the back room… 

There behind curtains… 

What lap dance ever reached its climax 

without a certain quality of    ballon? 

And there she stands in balletic efface—

an erased or obscured movement. 

This sordid charade… 

This squalid façade  which was her life. 

And there she stands, 

balletic en croix—

she in the shape of crucifixion. 

With nails she bought 

and hammered home herself. 

She in her perpetually scheduled 

  self-martyrdom. 

Ten until two, six nights a week,

  matinee on Saturday.

Here for the pleasure of venereal eyes 

  and syphilitic minds. 

She, their bawdy   bauble. 

She, their burlesque    ballerina. 

“Tombé”:

the balletic act of falling. 

That to which she 

most certainly excels. 

Perhaps all else balletic 

is nothing more than pretension.

All but that one…    Tombé… 

That one she has practiced 

  to perfection. 

A lifetime’s achievement… 

She and the forever act of the fall 

  have become one… 

The same… 

The shame. 

Bravura. 

Ó2012 Jack David Hubbell