She fidgets flirtatiously like crickets courting wives with their violins.
An audacious performance, in my opinion.
(But the crickets think to themselves "Was that dulcet or a dull set?")
She cuts with soft slices,
like blades of grass
Or the bread of great compromises
“Dance with me?” I ask.
And we do so, unabashed, with all the movement of shadows on the water.
Rhythm in the hips and blues in the eyes.
What instrument triumphs with such divine music?
Nonesuch but her mouth.
A mouth I long to sound.
To partake and revel in it’s blissful disposition of eloquence and aplomb.
Like an embouchure bomb.
And I can’t express in words the need
to draw my bow against her strings.
And if you ask me;
“Does HER body sing?”
Calling it out, comparable to the Eureka shout,
I shall answer only this: “Electric! Electric!”
A spark first found within the kiss.
And in her body I discover:
The surreptitious sessions of Mozart’s private opus.
And the lost confessions of Jesus Christ.
Astarte or Ishtar or Artemis, Demeter;
the maiden, the mother, the crone.
The smell of earth, ocean, honeysuckle or roses;
but uniquely and distinctly sweeter;
the blooming scent of ambrosial cologne.
She is ancient, modern, and mystery epitomized.
Calypso is: She who hides.
And also in her composition
lies the siren’s song;
and I, wholeheartedly, long to ring the alarm.
Daring me to be ensnared.
To be
drawn in and drowned.
Therein I’ll be lulled,
Pulled into the abyss and dashed to bits.
Or like the sea is famous for,
have new life breathed into my lips.
Then we can steal away like the summer does;
And take up asylum
on the other side of the world.
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