In this theatre of bone and shadow
where muscle strips like piano wire,
the leg — oh, the leg! — pirouettes
through velvet dark, defying gravity
while grandmothers’ wallpaper blooms above.

Steel-cut tendons ripple silver,
each striation a letter in love’s alphabet.
Down, down into India ink it plunges,
this sacred geometry of flesh,
this blessed diagonal of desire.

Who dissected the dancer?
Who scattered these ghost-white lines
across the charcoal void?
Each sinew sings its own elegy,
each fibre yearns toward earth.

And still those flowers,
those damned domestic flowers,
scatter their red and blue confetti
over this carnival of anatomy—
this beautiful violence of form.

Here, in the space between
science and surrender,
we witness the body’s last dance:
a leg, suspended in twilight,
teaching us how to fall.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Alexander Jawfox on Unsplash