Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 3
The swaying of your hips
on the old tree’s limb
as you reach for the apples
of your eyes. I am off-balanced
by the beauty, not the risk.
I want you to fall --
backwards into my arms.
You rock from side to side
but the tree won’t part
with you as you toss Golden
Delicious, one after another,
onto the feather blanket
One gets away, rolls
on the ground to me.
I bite, chew, slowly, watch
you keep plucking, tossing,
with both hands, bounty.
You pivot from the waist, pitch
your shoulders, simmer
me like apples into sauce.
The king and queen of the carnival
through the hot streets
in their two foot tall masks,
she with the puffy pink cheeks,
and curly spread of blonde hair
under the silver tiara, and he
in his droopy moustache,
gold crown and multi-colored robe
of sequins, couldn’t sustain
the illusion without a break. Unlike
their less frenzied, trailing subjects,
their gyrations were positively gymnastic.
When the red turning traffic
light interrupted their strutting,
they came up for air,
tilting their masks up and back,
revealing two squirming
black faces, breathing hard, sweating,
both men, not at all
in the spirit of the their dancing
They took deep breaths
and wiped their foreheads dry.
The leader, who was neither of them,
but a short scruffy creature
with a whiskered feline mask,
a feathered musketeer hat
and floppy boots, had pity
and pretended not to notice
this breach in the fantasy. He twirled
his baton again, the signal
that it was time to move. Masks
back on and in control,
the couple pumped their scepters
and shook for all
they were worth, dignity restored,
© Philip Wexler