A Ballerina stays her
hand when reaching for a
Danish.

Cheese or apple, maybe
both, would satiate her
anguish.

She lost her job, she broke her
toe. She somehow lost her
house keys.

She grabbed the pastries, snarfed them
down, and gloried in the
calories.

Pleasure lingers on her
tongue: sin distends her
stomach,

but if she had her chance
again, she still would have
done it.

“Discipline.” she mumbles
as she stumbles to the
bathroom.

Porcelain cold against her
cheeks – she’s loath to stretch her
costume –

she stiffly bows. Her bun-head
dips to proffer up her
penance.

A shaky finger points with
accusation, and with
reverence

she approaches that which
made her weak; then gagging
in disgrace,

the Ballerina purges
weakness to preserve her
virgin waist.