In the end she was never quite sure,

whether it was real or she was dreaming,

the trance-like way she'd take the stage

then waiting, noiselessly, beneath the lights

for that cue she'd come to know so well,

her father's nod, and the velvet curtains opened

to Mozart's Little Serenade.

How masterfully her father's violin

predicted each move before she danced it,

After all, she was the favoured daughter

she thought, as her little leg was pulled

high up over her right shoulder.

Yet as her body tightened into the pose,

for some reason she thought about her sister,

how jealously she'd been acting lately.

But soon the music quickly changed its rhythm,

and her little hips twisted in adjustment,

then her thoughts drifted to her mother,

the cold stares she'd given her at dinner.

But she was going to become a ballerina

she remembered again during the final movement,

her arms now loosely trailing behind her,

like the fallen branches of a tree.

The whole world would see she was special

she thought, stretching out into the final pose.

It was perfect—her father was ecstatic,

and the audience exploded with applause.

Yet when she was back in her own bedroom,

she would find herself quietly weeping,

Had her father really thought she was good?

she thought, noticing she was lightly bleeding

After all she was a woman now—

her young body swanned into itself;

she replayed the entire dance in her mind,

repeating her father's praise again and again.