DeAnna
Dancing
by D. K.
Sterling
I
recall heaving his name
through August air
as if holding a punch bowl
over my head
for the God of pleasure
to drink from
imagined sounds
of sanctity quenching; I stood
in a hot tub of sun rays,
symmetry of basted windows
eavesdropping...
awaiting my guileful creator
to set in motion
churned moments
of privacy urgent to pour
onto thin sheets
of rice paper I'd dance
landing in uneven strokes--
his sweat soaked princess
with face and hair
like a tousled, unmade bed
while beneath a
hand sharpened point
of the deepest shade
of charcoal pencil,
he'd come to explore me as
the definition of beautiful.
