For Anna

Ashes of roses, fading to griege, soft still
and holding the must of satin long folded
Layers of tulle are the colour of old newspaper, clipped
and folded, fragile at the edges.

Calamine ribbons and toe boxes, frayed, dirty, worn
kept perhaps for rehearsals, or as company for the clippings.

She was painted once, on pointe, her face turned almost away
but still showing a powdered cheek, a downturned eye
hair and arms, upswept, reaching for vermillion shadows.

The painter caught the tension in the ankles
the taut sinews, the stress fractures.

And thus she is captured, her arches and insteps imprinted
cast into the fabric, holding her position
long after she was capable.