He imagines moving to kiss her
And her pirouetting away,
Not knowing if she’s compelled to practice
At that very inopportune instant, or attempting to play,

Or, like some life-sized wind-up doll, possesses,
In lieu of mortal bones, a cache of spastic gears
That kick in unwantedly at such moments.
This he fears.

And how comical in the morning
She would be, his theoretical bride,
Her tutu bubbling up from the breakfast table
Like a witch’s brew refusing to subside.

Or, God forbid,
Her shattering
A sliding glass door as she bounds
Stupidly through it, the shards scattering

Everywhere. Or her frolicking
Like a dim animal into traffic,
Dying pointlessly on tip toe,
Oblivious and theatric.

This he doesn’t need.
The fantasy has ended.
It would be a show, he’s convinced,
Best unattended.

————

J.P. Celia’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Barrow Street, The Recusant, First Things, Tar River Poetry, The Lyric, and The Rotary Dial.