Discipline

A Ballerina stays her hand when reaching for a Danish.

Cheese or apple, maybe both, would satiate her anguish.

She lost her job, she broke her toe. She somehow lost her house keys.

She grabbed the pastries, snarfed them down, and gloried in the calories.

Pleasure lingers on her tongue: sin distends her stomach,

but if she had her chance again, she still would have done it.

“Discipline.” she mumbles as she stumbles to the bathroom.

Porcelain cold against her cheeks – she’s loath to stretch her costume –

she stiffly bows. Her bun-head dips to proffer up her penance.

A shaky finger points with accusation, and with reverence

she approaches that which made her weak; then gagging in disgrace,

the Ballerina purges weakness to preserve her virgin waist.