Girl

For my sixth birthday my mother gave me a music box:
Pink, lacey, pristine, golden hinges folding back to reveal
Plastic painted ballerina in classical bell tutu, en pointe. I would
Never train en pointe: my prima instructor told my mother
Six-year-old bones are still soft, vulnerable to
Sinking in like clay. I would quit ballet at age ten to
Pursue yoga and modern dance, still years away from
Having the right toes for grace.

After two weeks I snapped the ballerina off and
Watched just the bare, metal spring quiver and rotate
To tinny “Edelweiss”.