My ballet teacher says she's bad at endings. I imagine her lover's footsteps echoing on marble as he runs down a spiral staircase. She screams and throws a pale pink slipper into the foyer below. It lands softly. The door opens to the sound of sirens. Then slams. It's quiet now except for her sobs and the strains of Tchaikovsky from her stereo.
But that isn't what she means. It's simply that the routine we're learning trails off awkwardly. The music ends before the dance.
silent studio
a spider wraps its legs
around the barre
Harriot West lives in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Heron's Nest and bottle rockets. A selection of her work is included in New Resonance 5: Emerging Voices in English Language Haiku published by Red Moon Press.