by A.M. Broadous
April 2021

This pink box learns to sing when
the lid opens like a wild primrose.

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine.

A small mirror warns without warning,
objects may be farther than they appear—

bright teeth, hairlines, rings, promises.
Notice the tiny ballerina pirouettes

without you on a stage of pink velvet.
Plié. Jeté. Chassé. Never will she say

You make me happy
when skies are gray.

She twirls on one plastic leg, finds
natural balance where you find practice.

Her body, the white curve of a swan’s
neck, poised and perfect, a still-life

that draws you nearer, in anticipation
of the leap that won't send her to you.

You’ll never know, dear,
how much I love you.

The flower swallows the music, her
golden hair the last light taken away.