You, immortalized Dying Swan, flickering your hyaline arms
high above you, of course you did not fear death. You lived
and died onstage, your soul a gossamer snapped and tied back
together each time the Swan finally collapsed. Oh Anna, how
did you make frailty your virtuosity? Those tiny, chattering
feet hiding the command in your stride. I am twenty five
years full of stumbling, sheepish life, fearfully waiting for
the curtain to fall. How should beauty come to a weak fool?
And sometimes, Anna, I think all I’ve ever wanted was to
be beautiful. To be loved like you were: a sedated crowd at
your show the night after you died, watching the spotlight
shine a finger to where you would have danced.
–
Lynn Wang (she/her) received her MFA from UC Irvine and has had poems published in Dollar Store Magazine, Chattahoochee Review, Frontier Poetry, The Journal, and Zócalo Public Square. She also has a poem forthcoming in RHINO Poetry. She lives in Los Angeles.