The Puppet's Dance

by: Melanie Goodwin

A wooden puppet am I,

dancing and smiling upon the stage,

waiting for the audience’s approval

as the puppeteers pull my strings.

“Twirl and spin!” they demand,

tightening their hold upon my ropes.

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So I perform for them my awkward, false dance,

invisible tears wetting my cheeks,

as the onlookers clap with glee,

and the puppeteers schreech more orders.

They are merciless in their choreography

as they tug my cables to control my limbs.

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I, a mere marionette, am not powerful enough

to continue acting out their lie.

In my mind my nose grows longer, returning to its

origninal branch form, like Pinochio, my brother.

My wood is thin and delicate;

I will crumble under the nylon’s strain.

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I wonder how much longer

I can obey my masters’ whims?

How much longer will it be before

my dancing halts and

I tumble down upon the floor,

collapsing within myself?

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And I wonder, if I were to call for help,

would anyone even hear my cries?

This is Terpsichore, who is named for the muse of choral songs and the dance. She currently is residing on Empire Island.

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