Nick Corvino

For this unsafe room full of dim light
the ballerina’s pale shadow sprawls out
into those romantic
            wings of shame.

The olive dimensions
in those thin doll legs,
the smooth grey pleasure in
those hateful elephant eyes,
            are more simple than to give answers.

Her dead hair (scraped, abjecting
into the limbless corridors
and damp unending floorboards)
is done
by sterile dusk.
            The mysterious silver eye

(our) mysterious, unfaithful silver eye
is more simple than to give answers.
In those lucid evenings of intimate solitude
when its feathery tongue pierces the stained glass,
God

            uncovers his hideous smile,
and all her little teeth fall out.
 


 
Nick Corvino has poems in Eunoia Review, Jersey Devil Press, The Haven, and Helicon Literary & Arts Magazine.