January 7, 2015

undone by the veil...

Pierre Bonnaud, 'Salomé', 1900

January, I am up late, rubbing oils, on my belly for the Moon

her silk silver slippers 
slow step slide 
dance and ride 
o'er the midnight floor 
of an ice house 

leafless sentinels 
and pines standby 
as she calendar limbs
sharp angled hungers 
and long goodbyes

two small windows 
up high eyeing time
spy inside as outside 
says let her in 
ghosts and legs
haints and eggs 
the wombs of Winter
are delicate places
to hide behind her
harsh velvet desolation 
a strength that beckons 
indefinably familiar

and here am I desperately
sleepless and tippled red
imagining each last exhale is 
another dark fantasy releasing
another surrender of my head
another wish to see and feel
she's dancing again
a Salomé for what is 
every life after death for me


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