She was dressed in black
with black high heels
and the heavy, cats eyes mascara
that made her look
exotic.
We all howled at her
in our boyish, drunken revelry.
While our hearts beat wild
under our father’s wife beater’s
with girlfriend’s looking on
angry and frustrated
because they didn’t dare
excite us
the way she did.
They were small town girls
with restrictive smiles
and strict, church-going parents.
She,
in the black,
couldn’t have parents.
She was spun out of dream.
a mixture of memories and
glossy magazine pages
of nineteen fifties pin-ups
and Cyd Charisse playing the gangster’s moll
In ‘Singing in the Rain’.
She wasn’t all sunshine
and picnic hopes.
She wasn’t looking for the long-term
she was living in the now
and burning a flame
that reached out of the darkness
and lit the moon on fire.
She with blood red lips
and dangling, silver earrings
under her Raven’s hair
she called to us to dance.
To dance like we didn’t know how.
Dance with our bodies
and not with our minds.
To forget the bone and muscle
that made up our structures
to let the music
sink in and take root
in the depths of our skin.
Sway and shake
in rhythm with her beat;
to crawl inside that space
she invented
and take flight under
her strong wings.
We were never invited to such a place before.
We knew,
we always knew;
(before we were born we knew)
it existed,
but she gave it a name;
she gave it a purpose,
to be called on,
like a racing car
calls its driver.
Like the sun
calls a flower to bloom.
Like fire
calls for the initial spark to set it free.
That tight black dress
and sultry dark eyes,
and those lips
that dripped
with long, sweet, passionate kisses
called us to her.
There were no plaid dresses
in her wardrobe,
No simple white shoes.
The shiny pink lip gloss
and matching pink head bands
were foreign to her.
Our girlfriends
hated her
hated the door that was opened by her
and they would hate the way
we would kiss them that night;
wanting more from a kiss
than carefully tempting innocence
and the moments rush of excitement.
We wanted that deep,
luscious, drunken, drink
that the girl
in the black dress offered.
And the girls
wanted us back,
to be satisfied holding hands
and with tender hugs goodnight at the front door.
But we were gone.
Came in as boys
and left as new men,
holding hands for the last time
with our girls.
Author notes
Comments?
Picture from Yahoo Pictures - Flickr by Ende
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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Only you could write a poem this long and keep my attention - not just keep my attention, but have me glued to the text. You have such a distinct, unique voice, and I'm glad I came across your poetry.
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I really loved this write!! I remember growing up and feeling envious of those girls who discovered they were sexual beings while I was still a child. And I grew up in a small town, where the slightest difference in the norm was noticed and put into a spotlight for people to strive towards. It seemed these girls were always in that spotlight - teasing the boys and taunting us with womanly hips on a body too young to have them. They changed the game.
Sorry - bit of reflection there from the female point of view
I particularly liked stanza 3 and 7, and your final one. Your closing lines are wonderful. Well done!!
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I have a black dress It's like some unwritten law that all women should own such a garment. I am also partial to heels and cat's eye mascara!
I was absolutely captivated by this. You write with such unrestricted honesty and truth. I know both girls, and I don't think I'm either
Anyway, again, this is so fantastic! I am absolutely going to read more.
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Profoundly honest and I loved it.
This feels a touch like Leonard Cohen.
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tops to ya jazz
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Ah the women in black dress high heel and clivage the women who know how and if they don't they learn (don't we all) beautifully written with passion and intensity. This remind me of "The house of the rising sun". Love this well done.
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This poem was 'spun out of a dream'
What an enthralling read.
I am in love with this piece
so much so that I intend to bookmark
it --for my reading pleasure!
Thank you for sharing.
~Pastel
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very good - yeah, had to loose the headband and plaid for a black dress somewhere along the line myself.
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Wonderful write, I've read this before and thought I had commented, but then maybe I just didn't know what to say. You captured the emotions evoked by that little black dress oh so well.
Yes we did hate her, lol -
I still have that black dress... lol.
I was always considered the girl you didn't want to take home to meet your parents.
I liked this.
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