We were sweet
like the sugar-coating
we used to line
the toes of our pointe shoes.
And we were the best
Sugar Plum Fairies
they had seen in years.
We used to dance in the moonlight
as it painted our skin electric lilac,
and the raindrops pattered on the window
and patterned the floor.
I told you I loved you
and I swear that I meant it
but, honey, if it comes down to it
the Sugar Plum Fairy is mine.
Measuring our pain in toenail fragments
you still have seven, I have six and a half.
Feet bruised and beaten to match the lilac
shimmer of the Sugar Plum dress.
Third pair of shoes for me this month
but you'll use that ragged pair till they fold
because it's something you can't afford.
The first rule of pointe is to know your shoes.
You don't know your threads are coming loose
with each fouetté, every flick of the foot.
You feel it now, your feet falter.
A snap unanticipated by Tchaikovsky
is masked by the orchestral plucks
as the fallen Sugar Plum Fairy cradles her lilac foot.
Whoever said ballet wasn't a game?
