Ballerina

Since you danced for me
I have longed
to fuck you on stage,
through layers of spotlight-warm tulle
while your audience looks on.

There is something seductive
about your slippers
pink satin and the smell
of worn leather and sweat.

You practice daily
your pliant pretzel shapes
on hardwood loft floors,
landing so gently from graceful deer bounds
that I can barely feel the ceiling thump;
much quieter than cock-heartbeats
one floor below.

Unexpected, interrupted,
you are silent enough to hear
the pins drop as I pull your hair free.
Would you resist if I bent your bare legs
above your head? Would you cling
to the barre, splinter-handed,
and watch in the mirror
as we pliéd down
to dance our horizontal
pas de deux?

Resin rubs beneath soft thighs,
sticky, rough sand under a shifting sea
of arms and legs; I crack open
your painted smile –
but you still point your toes
as you come.