Born for arabesque and cabriole,
I could not pirouette my way

through the occupation, could only
perform in my mind pique turns

and side leaps while I scratched
dirt with fingers, unearthed

tulip bulbs and ground them
to flour. Between loaves

my bones began to wither
and crack, hunger dissolving

the fine arches of my feet,
the graceful curve of calf.

When the war ended I stumbled
into a different dream.

And for all it's given me
and all I've become, I'd trade it

for this mirror, this bar,
one night on some great stage,

my body fluid as sunlight
breaking over a field of wheat.