Isotope Ballerina
by Cornelius Fortune
She’s unstable inside, nursing radioactive decay upon a stage of
atoms (onward, ever upward, she drifts)
frozen methane hair, flowing with silicate
and water ice
poised, sweet, tender lips pursed hard with
determination
re-immersed shapes,
stretched and convulsed
hydrogen
deuterium
and tritium skate along
with her, hands joined, forming a circle
and she stares at the little girl up front
who whispers her
name
the vidscreen camera goes in tight as she spins,
faster, faster, in an arc, gradually going transparent,
ping
a
e
l
into the air
hydrogen, deuterium, and tritium pass through her
(her image goes ghost)
Face reddens, body glowing with light,
implosion-sunrise spreading from her like wings
eclipsing her face
the crowd anticipates it: beauty…fusion…
destruction to
rebuild
Once a solar year a girl is chosen to perform The Ritual
giving life to the planet, replenishing by sacrificing vital
energy translated from movement, to dance,
to life-giving energy
the three are always the same, but the dancer with the mark
upon her cheek – she changes slightly
a little younger each solar year; a little less certain of her
choreography, but The Ritual always ends in chemical reaction
(fire) as it begun
In the folds of the crowd, a small girl watches with interest as
they clear the stage; she gingerly touches the mark upon her cheek
removes her goggles (the colors still vivid behind her eyes)
residual glare hanging behind her memory in a wash
of torrential enfolding, unfolding her hands
as her father smiles sadly at her,
knowing scant time was left – she’d be chosen next,
the isotope ballerina (his little isotope ballerina)
“How is it done father?” she asked.
“What, my dear?” he said, absently stroking his beard,
watching the townspeople as they made their way either
home or to drinking places, or to the temple.
“The effects…” she said.
“With mirrors.”
“That all?”
“Mostly.”
“But it looks so real.”
“That’s the thing with effects isn’t it? The good ones are
indistinguishable from reality.”
“Like science and magic?”
“Good analogy.”
“She had a mark like mine.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Does that mean I’ll become a dancer?”
“I…” he waited for the throng of people to pass. “I should hope not.”
“But I am a good dancer,” she said in protest.
“And you’re an even better scientist,” he said.
“Maybe you can find out why our planet is in need of
so much energy every solar year. Why the terraforming
didn’t take. That’s the kind of work worthy of a brain
like yours.”
“Maybe,” she said.
He would die trying to save her,
that much was certain…he tightened his grip
on her hand, and she smiled up at him with the
light of three moons in collision, her starry gaze
awash in innocence, defiant of prophesy
or destiny
