THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

To Feel A Line

To feel a line
Drawn over the arc of a hip,
Is to feel the creation
Of beauty.


To feel a line
portray the curve of a breast,
Is to create sensuality
on a page.


To feel a line
Bowing into the arc of a neck,
Is to be captured
By pure joy.


To feel the beauty of a line
Is to be seized
By a moment of
Of absolute delight.
         --Scheherazade

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