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So a Ballerina Walks into a Biker Bar
Her tutu is luminescent, a white net catching the darkness with her powers to spin. Digs jerks his chin, nudges the closest stool mate, Five bucks she trips on a peanut and so we recognize beauty. The bet: A single arabesque in a biker bar. First, the rise to relevé. Then the arch, pulls up, waits for the weight of her entire body to balance in its cup. Slowly, she raises one leg. Like scissors, they separate, ankle high. Flirting, she raises a leg knee high. Finally, her body tips at waist high, bowing to physics, to the bar, to the men now frozen, bets laid. Then, it's the rush, the flight, the sweep downward toward the earth and teasing with the hand's stroke, the leg raised now, a clock striking twelve, an arrow shot, the finality of one straight line. But, she's not done. To succeed, she cannot wobble must stick it, sweat it, points of pain radiating upwards as one slender ankle shakes through two whole beats of Lynard Skynard, trembles as the smoke shifts, the tracks change, the long silence before the next song. Then, the quad shivers, a fast descent, the grimy floor. So, a ballerina walks into a biker bar. She leaves, a little unsteady in her toe shoes, stinking of cigarettes, beer, bills stuffed in her tutu.
Suzanne Parker
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:hi:
RL
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