An Ode to The Anri Showgirl

By Danielle Hazart

Angels are made on days of clouds;

when skies are grey and hold no crowds.

That day, a man stood there across

a grave to mourn his loss.

Her skin, a mirror of the sky,

It was so grey, it made him cry.

She laid there quietly sleeping

while beside her, he stood weeping.

The man went by the name Timore

and she was one he had most adored.

For he loved his shiny, bright pearl:

his dearly beloved show girl.

The night they met, Timore had dreamt

the stars had come for an event.

They left their homes and came to see

the showgirl, who was named Anri.

His eyes would blink and stare upon

the girl until his sleep was gone.

All he could feel inside his chest

were pairs of wings that wouldn’t rest.

Had he gone mad? He wouldn't dare

to be caught dead with such a stare.

It was best for him to ignore

Anri, the showgirl, and the whore.

Timore heard of the tales they told

about Anri and what she sold.

“If you give her a price that’s right,

she will lay with you for the night”

They warned him only of her price

and not how swift she would entice.

The man would learn while standing there

her touch was rich in lust and care.

Their nights were a falling feather;

they became each other’s tether.

The moon cried for sunrise’s kiss,

Timore yearned for this Anri miss.

So when the moon began to mourn,

it’s presence met with the sun’s scorn,

would Anri and Timore then lay

in silent embrace until day.

Should the sun rise up to the sky,

he’d arise with a heavy sigh.

He’d say as time approached again

“I must depart right now, my friend”

On the last dawn, Anri would glare 

at Timore, who got dressed with care.

“Sir, do you mean to cause me harm?

I will tell you who sleeps on this arm.

Many who can’t find peace in rest

will quickly languish on my breast.

Do you call me friend out of spite?

If so, sir, I wish you good night.”

Anri’s voice and face did not match,

her heart had suffered from a scratch.

“Anri, your hold is why I came.”

She wept, “Sir, that is not my name.”

The air grew tense in between them.

Timore questioned why she’d condemn

the idle word. Could he afford

to freeze the warmth he so adored?

He did not mean to cause her pain

because her sorrow held no gain.

Her smile was a ripe sweet fruit,

and her voice was a charming flute.

“I know that you can not be seen

with such a woman so unclean.

If you cared to preserve my heart,

let this time be the last we part.”

Timore felt dimming deep inside

as he was told to leave his pride.

Could it be love? He had to know.

Would he be sad to leave this hoe?

She met his glance, holding his eyes.

He knew that he told himself lies.

Timore was in love with Anri

but had no way to make her see.

Make her a wife? He’d be a joke!

For such thoughts, he began to choke

on his heart that would not uncurl.

The truth was Timore loved the girl.

But love, he learned, meant not a thing.

For only torture it would bring.

Timore stared into the low grave

at the woman he couldn’t save.

Finally still, he tossed the dirt

that would land on her old brown skirt.

A funeral that was too tame,

to honor the girl with no name.

Timore felt water on his face,

as he felt more and more disgrace.

She should have love and friends to cry

asking God why she had to die.

No one would remember her now.

Deep in his heart, the girl had sow

a love he knew he’d never feel

again. His chest was full of steel.

Maybe she had took it with her

everytime that she whispered sir.

Timore no longer cared to know

why in his chest had felt hollow.

When his shovel tossed the last hill,

the air around him became still.

There was no sound, no bird to sing,

no lonesome song for him to cling

to. He sat on the ground alone,

while he carved some words in a stone.

When he was done, he forced it down

into the dirt and looked around.

He brushed off his pants with his hand

then took a few moments to stand.

Then walked away without a word

for he knew it would go unheard.

Once he was gone, I went to see

the reason why he looked gloomy.

Immediately, I felt sad

to see the tombstone this grave had.

On the glum tombstone, did he write

“Here lies a girl, akin to night,

with stars for eyes and such soft touch.

Here lies the girl I loved so much.

The moon is the sun’s dearest pearl,

as she is my dearest showgirl.

The sun, a coward to the moon

I hope that I can see her soon.”

By Danielle Hazart