What are poetry and love for? she asks,
and I in deep thought;
but deep enough to dive under a dream
to bring back love?
No, said the one with blind fingers.
Yes, said the ancient of nights, not days.
If you insist she is young, has lives left
to fill, to love her own, she will sigh
and cast her impish smile
as she leans into her red dress
to reveal the valley
between her breasts.
When she turns her back to you
like Kiki of Montparnasse
in Man Ray’s Le Violon,
the shadow between her buttocks
shows where the tub ends,
her beauty begins.
I don’t know how I found you
but when you sleep will my body wake
to a chorus for the love-deranged,
the dolls pin-struck and wholly owned
by no one, not even Mama Moon,
and Daddy Day goes where he can think,
or thinks he can. He wants to know
why can’t he trust the flow of blood,
the way it changes when he sees her?
She says I’m not beautiful like you’re used to.
Beauty he has had, but never hers. Her eyes
are old souled. He gets out of the way.
bass strummed, bowed,
keys whispered under the right hand,
winds bringing the horns in,
syncopated with the up beat,
over the chords on down.
(23/24 December 2010)
Copyright 2010 by Floyce Alexander