Silent Expressions: Cincinnati Ballet, c.1990

–photos by mickey [Michele] morgan

I did my best, and I know I’ve made errors here, so help me out, Cincinnati Ballet Veterans! (many thanks to Rene Micheo)

Trinidad Vives and the late Antonio Souza in “Swan Lake”
Ben Stevenson’s “Cinderella”
Daniella Buson and Marcello Angelini in Ben Stevenson’s “Three Preludes”
Marcello Angelini and Daniella Buson in Ben Stevenson’s “Cinderella”
Mauricio Wainrot’s “Anne Frank”



by Gustav Klimt

I cut the first wild rose at midnight

and a sprig of honeysuckle too.

I loved in lunacy

and brought them into my house.


Twilight Rivulets [aka Light’s Wife]

Bringers of the Dawn by Karen Lillard

(“Bringers of Dawn” by Karen Lillard)


Then light seeped to her corner

reaching riverine fingers, folding thin

into her skirt, spilling labyrinthine onto shoes.

Her eyes hung open, liddy and weighted.

What she saw from her worn stool–

bone-curved, before the window–

was everything to the front and sides:

sill stable below an arch of wood,

double glass multiplying light.

Her rounded spine saw the tilting bookcase,

knew every thumb-smeared page,

saw the ovoid table, its dark legs

a bouquet of wood slats, a clay mug of cold

coffee making another circle, white, on dried veneer,

saw the pillow deflated to the size of her head,

sheets holding angles from her slow pushing leg

parted to the wall, sheets hunched as the dreams

she left for the gentle importunate probe

of light exercising its right to her body.

Come back to your place on the stool.

You have been here before, hunched, folded

hands resigned to each drift of light.

There is nothing to do but lean

your gaze in a constant stream,

unbroken, un-damned.

To Boy Danny


[portrait of Andre Salmon by Moise Kisling, 1912]

To Boy Danny

Hey boy,

I’m misty, boy,

Yeah I’m misty

Twisting snake of a


I undulate

Just for you.

My sweet mouth

Waits for your taste,

Boy, sweet boy,

What are you doing


I see you know.

You eye my crust.

Don’t tell now, ok?

Just come over here.

My breath hots you up.

Don’t pretend;

For dinosaur years

I’ve seen that flush.

You want my flesh,

My ash-ridden, brown leather


You’re just like them all

With your hot flush,


Your eyes suck for more,

You know, boy, you know,

You could cry at me,

Couldn’t you?

Don’t pity me now, ok?

For dinosaur years

I’ve flicked my ash

On sleeping trash

Of genitals with arms

And legs.

Sure, I’ll dance for you,

Squeeze my used body

To places you like.

Do you want that?

Do you want that, boy?

You can’t look at me,

I spare you that.

You would drown,

Little boy,

If you saw me,

So I shade my eyes

And sway my black,

So you don’t have to look,

Not yet.

You know, boy . . .

One day your mirror

Will spill your black.

Your black,

Then come back, boy,

I’ll wipe the ash

From you,

Sweet boy.




The Angel Oak, South Carolina . . . 1400 years old


Rooted earth deep

The tree inhales

Sucking the ground of its mound,

Drawing this need through substantial trunk

Of soft pith and sap.

Protected by the pitted terrain

Of scabby bark.

The current designs a gnarl

Of branching

Squirting into leaves.

Flustered to hysterics by the wind,

Dried to parchment by the sun,

The leaves rebel.

The tree exhales,

Shaking them grounded, then ground

Sifted into the mound

Earth deep.



[64-year old Caucasian toes: photo by the Fool #0]


—mickey morgan

He opened the envelope. She fell out.

Now when I need you most, you let me go.

She spilled to the floor partly draped over his foot.

Why don’t you ever cut your toenails—they dig into my back?

His toes felt funny—her body was oddly light.

You let me go and I landed on you—that’s funny.

He didn’t think it was funny, not even a little funny.

I know I should just get out.

His foot was far below. She was so light.

I should just leave you alone. I should just go.

He watched her twitch and opened the envelope to put her back.

But I can’t. The toes in my back remind me it’s your foot.

He bent down reaching with a hand to his foot.

I invest your tiniest moves with eager hope. To you I must seem funny.

When he arrived he was going to mail her back.

I get very worried you’re going to find me out.

He’d given her hints—she should just get out.

I know what that hand is going to do—put me back.

When he arrived he was going to mail her back.

You’re going to discover that I’m very light.

He’d opened the envelope. She’d fallen out

I can’t forget that I’m lying on your foot.

He didn’t think it was funny, not even a little funny.

Now when I need you most, you let me go.

He spread his fingers as he reached. He watched his hand go.

You let me go and I landed on my back.

I really feel funny. He didn’t think it was funny.

I’m really nothing. He just wanted something light.

I can’t leave your toes. His hand got closer to his foot.

I should just leave you alone. You should just get out.