flashquake Poetry flashquake |
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Shimmering waves of grace dance between lines of despondency and despair as gleaming black high heels flash beneath the curvaceous arch of artful feet. The poet within is captured by the dance as perfect legs respond to the rhythm of unheard music. Graceful limbs, possessed by some heavenly female being, spin and turn, miraculously touching my soul's heart with choreographed intent — interpreting the gilded notes they mirror. The dance, sensuous in all things holy, a mix of movement, music, and vision, revives in me the will to go on. The dancer's beauty, the final weight, balances the scales between hopelessness and hope. I stare, unabashed, unaware that my eyes, like glowing red coals in the shadows, burn with dark intent. Spurred on by irrepressible desires, I rise and draw near to the flashing sequined softness of her dress. Red glimmering waves of lust brush fleetingly past my face bringing the silky, nyloned legs ever closer to these breathy lips. Held within strong arms, she swirls through the blackness, faceless and without name, a vivid reminder of temptation proffered, then denied like every good thing. Her partner blends anonymously into the void, the black starched creases of his tux barely visible against the backdrop of rich velvet curtains. She dances with the shadow of the devil himself — the part of the demon inside of me. The waitress clears her throat and steals my money. I cannot bring myself to meet her eyes. Were she to see into my soul--then surely would the depths of my depravity be revealed. To her credit, 'Mandy-Lynn' brings me yet another scalding drink. Blessed numbness passes through these withered, antiquated bones, reviving muscles long unused and dry. Mandy taps her watch. "Last call," she says, clinking down my change. Amid the strange power of woman scent and the dancer's spiced perfume, I sense a kindred soul in this perfect flower of young womanhood lingering at my side. Our eyes meet in tender recognition of an all-too-familiar loneliness. The aura that follows those destined to watch-but never dance themselves. She does not pull away when I close the remainder of my salary within the delicate palm of her hand. Savoring her scent, and the softness of needy flesh, I muster courage. "Fifteen minutes," she says, knowing I'll wait. The milky, luminescent glimmer of stage lights dims. The music ends. Silence and darkness soothe the way into a place reminiscent of youthful hope. I watch Mandy-Lynn walk away, her hips firm and round as fulfilled promises, the black seam of her silk stockings, sensuously serpentine, pointing the way to a rapture I have not known for a long, long time. The fire water settles warmly into my body, washing away every jagged thing, leaving only the enticing vision of creamy thighs alive in the darkness. I can almost taste the sweet and salty juices of the dance as I stand, collect my senses, and prepare to leave. |
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© 2002 by D. Jeanette McSherry HOME | Archives | Submission Guidelines | Contributors | Links | Contact Us | ||
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Like a rapidly moving stream, darkness soothes the day away, washing the fragmented glass shards of anger and pain out of mind. The fire water stings my throat, then settles warmly into my body. Only the milky, luminescent glimmer of stage lights focused on a woman's legs remains.
