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Ballerina, to Daddy
by Cesca Janece Waterfield Daddy, I am not hungry. Appetite is neither stirred into existence nor contained by an empty belly. Rarely go I craving substance or state. But action? Give me to desire. Sinew and fluid continually change form. Independent of feeling, they are not bothered by stasis or sentiment. Fulfillment is not fruit, but flower. Satisfaction yokes the moment it is dreamt achieved, and prevents those who might follow. But yearning opens imagination, and expands experience. Because knowledge directs want, incestuously, mine seeks its own seed. Will you consider that an informed quest improves upon a blind, grasping attainment? Would you butcher coarse beasts for a roast that leaves little more than detritus, and a carcass? Or would you host a small selected supper? I feel you tumbling down, into an empty room, without a sound. Because of the apple, I come, called or not. My being beckoned does not matter, only my being. In love, there is no status quo. At midnight, awakened, you shush me, and return to sleep. In my wanting more, you find amusement. Or discomfort at my advantage? Your satiety is stalemate, completion. I prefer process. Seeking end-states, you cling at what cannot be possessed, love. Because I dream, I find burgundy apples among verdant green: Like bright Japanese lanterns, they dangle, and prove my delight; juice wetting my lips, loosing me from your clasp, as you stand at my door and wave an uncaring warning: Rein your errant impulses. Daddy, as you envision my limitations, you idealize yourself, thinking you will prove me harm. Your power depends on my believing you. But Daddy, you will always be mine.
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