Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
The ribbons are wound too tight around her ankles.
The knots rest just above hard, round bones;
She will have blisters later.
The curtain rises and bright lights shine
Into her eyes, and she blinks to the beat
Of the violin concerto that skitters,
Speeds and slows to her rhythm;
She crescendos and the song leaps,
Then they both prance in a flourish.
From my seat in the auditorium
She looks perfect: clean lines and graceful arches
On a body sculpted into thin curves.
Her performance is impressive,
The execution of the choreography
A clear testament to her discipline,
Disposition, dishonesty—
I am too far away to see
The sweat that collects in her eyebrows
And threatens to spill over;
Her makeup cracks as she smiles,
Just like the way she rehearsed years ago
In the studio mirror,
And the blood starts to seep through her satin shoes.
The white lights catch the floating dust of the old theater
And together they create a convenient filter
For flaws. But I know they are there.
The violins end in a startling vibrato
And she lands her final pose.
The room erupts in applause for her,
Their prima ballerina, their perfect girl.
The crimson velvet drops, and finally
The white lights dim.
She retreats into the wings, hunched over and limping.
She tends to her wounds in the dark.