Even when I was young,
societies rising sun,
waltzing the moon in ballrooms
‘til it’s milk curdled under a yawning light.
A terse firm tart, flirting curfews
and groping life, I lusted to love
with my most feminine feature …
the youthful smoothness of my fingers;
long slender thimbles of nerve,
upon which I spun a stable of men.
Snapping my nails, they’d come
fumbling with lighters, cocktails
and shucked clamshells.
Oh, with my blood red tips
dipped in white gloves
for the affairs of black tie, among others;
I would stand, stroking
the shaft of a champagne glass.
Laughing amid clouds of smoke, big bands
and tables of beef bones and banter.
Hailing young suitors with a gesture,
coyly stroking my hair, I flirted with strangers
and, as long-stemmed roses, soon
rid my garden of such thorny lovers.
Bravo. An apt description of a woman who is aware of and exploits her assets. Well done!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
marvelous work, John. you definitely captured the power and prestige. -Tailor B.