Giselle
When your belly
is a porcelain pitcher
and the days are made silver
as if they knew
they were to end
in nostalgia,
so time comes
to breach
our broken bodies.
Birds
with their faint cries
will seem to laugh
at the weight
of our limbs.
Built
to be broken,
we climb
in dizzying spirals
through lavender air,
moist,
moistening your eyes,
wet on your throat,
soft in your hair.
When your gaze was a theft
the dancers departed.
There is no chorus here;
there will be no more May queen.
All the maidens
have gone
mad
fulfilling
the prophecy
of their mothers.
You will only limp
shuddering
under
the fragrance of your braids.
Échappé.
Tombe.
Your slender wrist
unfurls
like a fern
like you were already a part of the ground.