Bridget Van Houtem
You say you want a gift for Christmas.
Mother says you are the gift,
They wish they could have what you have, Katarina.
Eyes ooze with envy while watching
the heavenly ways in which your body molds
to fit the picture in the master’s mind,
the scolding feels like praise at times
because you know they are watching
Arms strong and slim and tight
above your bun, leg light as it whips to the side
and snaps in with a spin
sweat altering your vision as your toes
bubble with blood inside your pointe shoes,
and everything burns with every turn.
This doesn’t feel like a gift, this
Head feels like it’s floating,
you should be gloating while jealousy thickens the air
but despair is all you feel as you remove your pointe shoes
and red is painted on the pink silk.
There is pain only you see in your
And as your eyes were still blinded by the
hard work, and your mind was tied in knots,
the green girls were filling your pointe shoes with glass
like Saint Nicholas fills candy in a stocking on Christmas Eve.
You got what you wanted for Christmas, Katarina:
A gift other than your