Ballerina’s dance across the wallpaper that lines
Eleanor’s bedroom.
Every time she begins to close her eyes,
they move.
A pirouette,
a grande jeté,
a pas de bourree
around a stone fountain,
beneath the stars.
The dancers turn
and leap,
smiling and laughing.
Eleanor stumbles out of bed
and assumes first position.
The dancers don’t look.
She spins three times,
pushing for a fourth.
They don’t notice her stopping short.
“Hey!” She waves at them, waiting for them to watch.
But they laugh louder,
look only at each other,
and vanish.
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