by Jo Ann Baldinger
Because deception’s in the blood, because beauty
holds no truck with virtue – how else to explain
the swing of galaxies, the turns and patterns
of canario opening out and folding in?
The ballroom grew hectic with lust,
with spite. Dancers pranced in suede slippers
while my Prince mulled the possibilities.
Chandeliers swayed from earlobes and ceilings
and powdered wigs, piled on wire frames,
were held aloft with grease, ribbons, pearls.
Only I was there to see the ashes on her hem
the dung tracked in on the heel of her glass shoe.