by Dante Bortolotti

the cabaret girl becomes a song on stage
she is the music in her every step, flick, spin, pose
she’s glory and grace as they know it, this girl
their eyes affixed to the work of art under the spotlight

she kisses a new man each night behind the crimson curtains 
they ask her name; each night it is new
she can’t remember the right one now
between bars of sheet music

she looks into every man’s eyes hoping she will see herself 
but there is only a tunnel with no light at the end 
not one of them had the answer to the pleading question
of her forgotten sense of self

when she is off the clock she washes the makeup
tears the prim, pretty dress from her body and lets her hair fall 
she looks in the mirror, hoping to see her raw, unchanged form 
and again, she sees nothing, only the wall behind her

she walks like a broken doll to the edge of the creek
her final prayer, weak and dying, crumbling
she peers into the ripples of the running water
and only the wavering blue looks back at her

so defeated and destroyed, she sinks her head to the bottom 
and lets the deep blue fill her lungs wholly
but not even in death will she find her name
the newspapers will only report her as the cabaret girl