THE CHOSEN ONE Poem by Stefan Hertmans

When Flora dances
he sits in the front row.
He takes his glasses off
and shuts his eyes, delighting in
the way she glides.

How he can see her
no one has ever understood;
only an angel's eyelids
are translucent.

She brushes past and flutters by,
strews light and shadows
around the sandy circle,
she shakes her lissom body and
like a snake with limbs
she writhes and coils, fragrant and
seemingly blind.

And all the time she sings,
high-pitched and rather wild.

Suddenly she stands before his throne;
she pants and shivers.

And he, his eyes still closed,
he lisps towards her breath
and the pulsing arteries in her throat,
applauding what he doesn't see.