The Dance

carved of clay

cut from bone

issued by sea and sultry voiced women

she was born to this

*

wildly fluttering hips

small feet with gold coins clanking

heavy bosom heaving

she accepts their stares

spots their sloppy tongues dangling

*

she twirls and slaps the thirst from the soldier’s eyes

without even glancing in his general’s direction

*

she wanders purposefully, distracting

hundreds of hands flung across tables

hopeful

she might weave her dance

in their direction

*

cigars and whiskey fill the men’s mouths

for a time

and all the while

her hands, henna-stained thieves,

begin to touch

without leaving the softest caress

*

the bareness

of her goose-pimpled glistening skin

is as forbidden

as it is arousing

*

the men

come to imagine

her body moving beneath them

all its ripeness

fully displayed

*

and yet

she slips away

mystery, fallacy

an unknowable truth

sheer as fabric, breathing, fluttering,

clinging

whispering

the chase is on

*

she mounts

the stage

taunting,

impossibly close,

impossibly far

*

scented by honey

with peat and saffron and sex

she seduces her way across the room

touching

nothing but air

*

her body is art

working

*

her eyes

never stop exploring

cracks in walls and doorframes

searching for any weakness she might exploit

***

Copyright © 03/27/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.