Ballerina

The finest glycogen chain circles her

- neck- waist –dress-

like ropes of purest pearls

it adorns her.

With each footfall

of her relevé dance

a bead is dropped.

Each bend in her body

lessens the chain,

loosens her chains.

As the sweet thing falls away

its’ memory

is traced in the tracks of her sweat.

She leaves nothing in reserve

and with her final soufflé fall

she is finished. 

Speaking Russian

I’ve thought about the way

you knew Napoleon’s trail to Tilsit.

As if I could pull the amber of your eyes

from the Baltic,

but those saltwater shores

have hold on my double helix,

not yours.

Your origins are

deep winter,

fur hats, and tired physicists.

God, if I could,

I’d know you.

There’s something about the day

you were late for me.

And something about the way

your suits hit just the end of your shoulders,

that’s something.

Your skinny hips

and seemly lips

murmur secrets.

Only, I can’t hear.

Pheromones

She’s the red dress

with no sleeves

and no guesses

left.

The curve of her

lips, hips,

thighs, and eyes

draws his attention,

but there's more

than just details.

In nearing her,

lavender, citrus,

and something stronger

overwhelm him

Just like champagne

tumbling down

a pyramid of crystal glasses,

each cell whispers to the next

to straighten it’s back

and hold its breath.

With each synapse fire

he is

electrified.

With an awkward step forward,

he clears his throat.