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The Dancer's Midriff
Blood simmers in the cave-lit fire
of the Scorpio pyre where bees swarm
forgotten rites. Hieroglyphic fermentation
vaporizes. Cymbals clash, smash leather
satchels stitched together with dry skinned
apotheosis and sacrificial goats. Wandering
ghosts pretend to be gods in a subterranean
marriage where the dancer's midriff drips
honey smeared with ash, where sweet
meat hangs from the hunt and the chase.
At Least He Wrote a Note
The slur of sudden death, a split second
splash of tarry stench flies from this house.
I was absent while she helped him pack
imitation up market made in China clothes,
photos of children he didn't want to know,
tacky trophies stashed in plastic bags
like narcotics mixed with assorted trash.
Two empty bottles in sugary dust died
under the wrong side of the bed. At least
he wrote a note before his hands strangled
wet dreams with bruised revenge. He forgot
to return those videos to the rental shop,
forgot all doors are firmly locked, that double
crossing is not a suitcase crammed with
unwashed jocks, filthy t-shirts or dirty socks.
Alison Daniel
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