In life’s waiting room,
a harpy mute.
Pain is creeping somewhere,
the birth of all things.
In a chair, an old woman
suckling a doe.
Tonight she will wring its neck,
leave the meat to rot.

Quivering in the cold carpet,
a cigarette painting her image
in ash.

The dance of silk over my hips
crossing the bridge in the
strenuous rain,
I strive for the dream damp
roof of my umbrella.
Slipping through a street
silver with desire,
in my slip, pink and traditional
as ballet or tongue,
I enjoy the voyeuristic windows
gawking at me,
vacant, mirroring.

I am slinking like a wisp of smoke
to a place I do not know,
an identity sculpted by a
winsome fire.