She carves graceful lines
And hallowed curves
On the TV screen.
A dancer dressed in classical music
And sheathed in blades
Of quicksilver,
Etching scars
Into a skin of ice;
Her ivory legs
Pumping;
Small arms
Lifted high;
Eyes full of new,
Green light;
Body strong,
Potent,
Flowing.
The music stops.
And the audience alights
For the ghost
With the pretty face.
A goddess
Now worshiped
By one.
A dream
In real.
She is her.
An imposter awoken,
Escaped from a coma.
At sixty miles-an-hour
Her head
Shattered glass
And spat blood
Through a windshield.
Eyes full of memory
And red light.
She sits and watches
The swan within
The ugly duckling,
Wilting in her wheelchair,
Longing to bloom again.
She does not sleep.
She dies awake.
