May Or An Untamed Sensuality Poem by Daria Lebedeva

May
Or an untamed sensuality

She felt a feverish shivering, with a noticeable impatient gliding
on the thin layer of ice on a cold January morning. Slightly to herself reminding
in every step, in any weather and mood that she categorically must be on the top
at her best, her style of dressing, visage, perfume choice, that she is a lady, not a mob.

With her pitch-black eyes, she could burn into ashes, to seize and to hypnotize
with an inborn print: a glaringly demanding look that she could but realize
that every man (woman did not exist at all as if this gender were never created)
in a street crowd, bus, or hall- unconditionally men must stare at her at any rate.

A capricious, shallow-minded, smug woman with demand in her eyes,
an illustration of blossomed narcissism, a self-lover, for whom others are in disguise.
The parents were aware not in vain of their coming of age, knowing
that their daughter could leave them in a house for the elderly, seeing an abyss they are rolling

down and down, while she was ascending and advancing in methods
of makeup, charming looks, and coquettish voice, projecting a dress with no folds.
In only one matter she got an unbending will: to absorb the gazed and peered look
as a fuel for engine, as a free fly for birds, as a last chapter for a detective book.

And her walking is an absorbing of caught looks that recharge her as a source
of energy or vital processes, without any kind of admiration she is not her own boss.
‘'For whom are you applying makeup? '' her sad mother asked long before
Her first marriage. ‘' Just for myself. ‘' the answer was too proud-spirited. ‘'Oh''

The second mother's sign symbolized the distrust and impotence to object
or to change her daughter's life values or absence of them: her failure was too abject.
The pretty looking, selfish, and stone-hearted creature was born to enrapture
and to sting in the same moment, the nearest are doomed to be captured.

But the year had begun for her in May, the season of undressing in her native sea town.
As a teen she behaved like an adult on the beach, in sensuality to get down….
And impunity for her small and grand monkey tricks: mocking at modest
her friends, neighbors-maidens, teasing tennis, and football players at her best

was lasting from year to year making her to be too confident in own uniqueness.
She was a sower of temptations to fledgling guys too weak to avoid future stress.
If fruit is mellow, it quickly finds its eater, its fellow. She later forgot the name
of her first man to her shame. Later she would say to invest her body with fame

to guys with perspective, not silly poor gals from the playground with empty pockets.
She was too confident in her own strength; charm is swift and starts like a rocket
as she made her belief, despite the commonness of every human being, now and before.
There is no one like she is. She is not anyone and cloning is out of place, and no more.

She was waiting without a calendar, for the coming of May, the month of all links
for one principle reason why: summer, time to show off, at its first day begins.
And in all the months except May as in January, today, she feels a homesick
for her month, to her legitimated piece of time: to put on red lipstick.

With her open, half naked feminine charming she hits and kicks a man's heart
and poisons moods for a whole day or longer. But for her it is a play, a ‘'what? ''
A rhetorical question to raise jealous reproaching women. Her tricks:
the tight clothes, the lazy- soporific look, heavy makeup, and bright lipstick.

Everything began in May: she found a husband, a victim, and the marriage bonds,
the birth of a child, the first conflicts of the clashes of the interests (everyone holds) .
She was afraid of giving birth to a competitor even in the male gender.
She overloaded the granny's retirement with a baby-mum's attention sender.

The beauty in many doses is venomous, the captivity by beauty is long terminated
and the yoke is not removed with one abrupt wave of a hand, in mind it is located.
Her admirers not in vain and with no agreement beforehand had one feeling
to knock her head against a brick wall or to drink melissa tea. The time of drooling

has irrevocably ended up. And the bitter sobering comes on agenda: the dualism
of feeling or unsolved theorem: heart longs to stay with her, but mind, (realism)
stenches arms to pack luggage. She is too slimy to catch; the partner is too jealous
to have a peace of mind. Everyone around her was predestined to be in total use.

The ones who are strong-willed enough not to fall under the influence,
the escapees of not projecting in voluptuous dreams a romance
they were few, the majority are the fishes in the net
after grasping her returned home to wives or girlfriends with regret

and a stamped image of her in their eyes desperately matching the ideal
painfully questioning the discrepancy between the banks of life: dreams and real.
Such women test the validity of a man's attachment with their own families,
life principles and a good attitude to life as a remedy against all possible enemies.

She had her tactics in sucking blood sip by sip from the victim wrapped in a web
and when the intuition gives a clue to the loss of interest and her voice as said
softens and sweetens in a way every passenger will identify the artificial tone.
She was of that dangerous kind to demand the attention, no commas, no colon.

The captive failed to stay firm in front of a tempting masquerade.
She was not familiar with the undermining exposure of teen energy at all.
An uncertain period: not yet a child but not yet a woman: a slippery washed hall.
The college's learners run not to be in time in the classroom, but to show up to be a bridegroom.

She was too upset: the daily heavy rain, the unexpected quest of summer refuses
to give her a green light, her, the child of hot May, it abuses
to let her put off the dresses, her hunter's plans really stresses.
The rainy days are too long, too covering, too old-fashioned and depressive,

too conservative to the tendency printed in her blood pressure
‘' minimum with maximum'': clothes and men's attention in geometric progression.
A selfish creature day by day passing thirty doves in the park on the way to work
could not find out what she really wanted to do, what a sparkle for the heart that is locked?

After she got heavily soaked to the skin one raining summer evening
instead of promenading in front of a grasping man's eyes (just like the beginning)
and women jealous distracting attention to another side
with smeared mascara under her eyes she looked like no one's bride:

wet, thin, no-visage, the real face and body with no grimace.
She came to mum, who was a mum to her 8-year-old son (her life mess) ,
Disoriented… mum saw for the first time, with the mixed-up look:
‘'I lost a bag'' from her mouth sounded like ‘'I lost a sacred book''.

‘' Cosmetic bag, phone and keys ‘' the things acting as lifebuoys.
She was holding her son's hand on a rare Sunday walk.
Suddenly, in her 40's she felt like an orphan: without parents and a son
who fled faster than a cheetah anywhere but not within mum's garrison.

One night in a dream, she reconstructed a picture:
on hot summer days of lazy holiday, she tended to walk along the seashore
to step on the tracks left by her husband walking ahead…
But now, what is now? There is no one ahead to follow, instead.

There is no guiding lofty and highly spiritual theme, openly or under line,
only an aging and fading body, less men's looks and more cheating behind,
no dear person to look at her gently, no one to take care of, the lonely May,
no intentions in an expired heart to admire the breadth and height of the sky. Nay!