, , , , ,


a key turns,
a hasp releases,
and flips her up,
the tiny dancer.

doggedly she twirls
forever on the same spot,
a jerky pirouette
to a hiccuping refrain.

utterly circumscribed
by her situation,
forced to face, eternally,
her own reflection,
as she turns, and turns, and turns.

a hostage in a pink velvet prison,
she is folded down flat
into what once was precious,
testament to a childhood lost.

and when the dance is over,
she settles back uncomfortably
into the cramped ersatz luxury
of forgotten costume jewellery.

Photo by Belinda