February 18, 2005


She twists
inside a storm
of her own making.
Her laughter flashes,
her flashing earrings sing,
her singing bracelets beckon
to the unseen spectator,
and her eyes glitter
in the dark.

Her dance
is desperate,
as she stays
a step ahead
of morning,
of another banishment,
another leavetaking.

The fire flashes
on her hair, her skin,
turning her golden
as her bracelets,
backlights the fluid outline
of her body
against her swirling skirt.
She dances.

She leaps,
the fire leaps,
her thoughts leap faster -
and she knows, someday,
the fire will
be gray ash,
and she will wake,
and alone.

Fall 2003.

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