The blue bird dances with it. The blue bird is beautiful. Silver feathers woven between blue ones shine like constellations cycling around the bird. She is a universe spinning on human legs, adorned in a bird’s swirling gown, plumed and bright.
The blue bird dances with it, even though it is not beautiful, but wretched. It stumbles. It scuffs the white tiles. The blue bird keeps it upright with a man’s arms, a man’s hand wrapped around its waist to keep it from tumbling.
If we could see them, we would see a flurry of blue and silver, a flutter of feathers like a gown of wings. We would see the beautiful blue bird jeweled in silver, crowned in gold rope. We would see her and fall in love; that is anyone’s fate. But she would not see us. If we could see them, the blue bird would see only the thing in her arms, the ugly smudge. It will crumble if only she’ll let go.