by Lana Bella

I am the bored eyed courtesan,
whose manicured fingers
lift a silk hand fan
resting it over my right cheek just so
as strangers sidle by.
My old dreams sleep on the other side
of the crimson panel screens,
where soft voices rumor
in intimate refrains
and lupine bird claws track through
the plush Oriental rugs.
I often used to say that I need
only to trace my tongue
across the amethyst depth of
a man’s prayers to unseat his halos,
but like a fitful flight of bird,
I always lapse halfway into
the blue bottom of his generous
as the ill-belongings of urgency
slick between my thighs
and primordial desire leaves
empty in flecks of his five o’clock shadow.

Out of the tall glass bay,
the sunlit boulevard carries inward
a constant hum that
breaks open like inviting yolk,
yet, I couldn’t budge my indifference
any more than a frenzied collapse could
shake me,
because you see,
here, inside this private boudoir,
this is my dance in a cordon
on painted feet,
this is my ragged air.


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