“The Silent Waltz” by Janaki Nair (17, Ohio)

Dance, dame, upon your woolen lake,
traipse year by day.
Sink softly. Step and shimmy.
Bow to great fame with
lactic acid bubbling about
slender, shaven legs.

The material is ever-hungry, so
your Morse secrets drown.
Of turgid eyes, of
medium-rare heels.
Circling the
point you dare not toe with
your audience inert and music muffled.
If a girl falls on a woolen lake,
does she still make a sound?
If she scrapes her knee on the plush waves,
does the wound still bleed?
Can she smell metal, taste defeat?
If a girl falls
on a woolen lake,
does she even fall at all?