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| 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
EJR ©
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