The Audition

I enter the gruesome gates of Ballet Hell

In ten minutes I will stand before a glacial director,

In a line of nameless, faceless bodies,

Praying that God pulls me out of that line -

and gives me a name and a face.

I am waiting to begin the audition,

Waiting to learn my destiny.

One-by-one, fifty dancers will pour out their hearts

       through their hands, their feet, and their eyes.

One-by-one, fifty dancers will have their love and future

       twisted away.

And, yes, we pay them for this.


A smirking lady hands me my number:

       the tangible epitome of the audition

It still retains its dizzying smell of magic marker.

I have been stripped of my identity -

Dehumanized by the graffiti pinned to my leotard;

For the next two hours my name will be:

Number twenty-eight.

Hair is deliberately coiled in a skull-gripping bun

Each girl inventories the bobby pins

        that imprison her hair.


We fidget at the barre, in numerical order -

Each dancer starts to warm up by holding her leg in some

       distorted position over her head.

Leg warmers and sweat pants shroud these

       strangely beautiful, serpentine legs

The room writhes with apprehension…

The audition director enters - a self-exalted demi-god…

He walks agonizingly slowly…

Taking inventory of every body he passes…

He grins a sinister, weaselly smile…

Then seats himself at the front of the room.

…Let the festivities begin.