Her poet's hand quiets,
her silver tip stills.
The night reflects
the tide's ebb and the
changing of the moons.

A tiny figurine,
placed upon a low-lit mantle,
a statue of a tiny, dancing girl.
She stands on toes made of stone,
all wrapped in sinewy pink.
A ballerina,
a star-glitzed spotlight stealer.

She wonders,
by the quiet of the night
and the stillness of the empty page
in front of her,
why she couldn't be that girl.
A porcelain tear,
meant for tiny porcelain girls,
slips,
sliding,
down her powder-dusted cheek,
and lands with the grace of a waterfall
on the paper lying in wait below.

A writer's tear,
all glistened in glow,
can create a whole satin world.
Tell me, can a dancer tell a story
by the size of her waist all stretched out
by pearls and pink fabric tutus,
or by the soundless tread of her bound and timely arched
right foot?
Tell me, when will words be worth more
than waists and grace?
When will she find her spotlight?
When will beauty magazines be right?
And when will a picture be worth less
than a thousand girls starving themselves to be
ideal?

A thousand words more
and she'll knock the
porcelain perfection of beauty
right off the mantle.