Indestructible

Poetry by Boudreau Freret ≈ Photography by Aparna Mendu 

Giselle was dead.

I was in the wings with Albrecht.

The theatre was packed.

I had never before seen the marriage

of strength with grace

The dancers made it look easy,

these apparent contradictions,

Plato’s Forms for physical conditioning and artistic mastery.

But then, until that moment, I had never really witnessed

Professional anything.

Or rather, if I had, hadn’t appreciated it.

and I was in awe.

Where are the flowers?

Albrecht asked.

and suddenly they were in my hand

thrust there by a passing member

of the touring crew.

What are these!

he whispered wide eyed

These aren’t real!

With furrowed brow

He took the plastic stems

and began to beat the blossom ends

against the black brick wall

contorting his face to my delight

repeating with every blow,

IN-DEE-structable!

[Whack!]

IN-DEE-structable!

[Whack!]

IN-DEE-structable!

[Whack!]

and the harder I tried to maintain my composure,

the more I feared I would wet myself.

Then on cue, Albrecht danced

back on stage

and wept real tears

as he placed the flowers on Giselle’s grave.

I was in awe.

But then, until that moment, I had never really witnessed

Professional anything.

Or rather, if I had, hadn’t appreciated it.