Folded in on myself and heavy-lidded,
the heat is unbearable.
My contortion is hinged legs,
singed hair, doll voice rattling
like charred marbles stuck behind the trapdoor
of a throat that used to be so musical,
so flexuous. So sweet-skinned
in my sequined acrobat dress and feathered masquerade mask.
I perfectly purled across laminated stages.
I lightly tumbled through flaming gold hoops
and white balloons without bursting,
without melting down…
Now the antique music box motif
is imprinted on my fevered forehead.
Folded in on myself and heavy-lidded,
this box is too small I can’t breathe.
Bones creak like sick swallow song.
My contortionism is twisted swan neck,
blistering. Beak bound shut with burnt ribbon.
White feathers disappear into acrid poofs
as the music box motor winds down;
scritches out the last few rusty notes—
bird vertebrae, cauterized syllables, crushed vowels.
Now I’m so small I could sift through
the tiny gold hoop of an earring.
Now I’m so small I’m hardly a handful
of ash from a pair of scorched pointe shoes.
Cremains of a smoldering pirouette,
bedecked with blood-stained baby teeth.
(inspired by the short film “BOX” by Takashi Miike)