Poem and artwork by Marge Simon

Pavlova, you will not rest!
Each dawn you perform,
costumed in mist.

Your shadow plays
in picturesque display,
a pirouette around the stones,
as gracefully you wrap your bones
around the tombs,
then flit to odalisk,
where you mock
such ostentation
with a casual bow.

A last plie
at the crematorium,
and you disappear
within the pyre.

Regardless of the decades,
I would applaud
if I could find my fingers.

Had the maggots
not destroyed my feet,
I'd follow.