Evening at the Burlesque

What would be the point of staying?
Past the point when
the pseudo-story ends and
the burlesque shifts to minor, menacing keys?

The atmosphere is oiled and dingy,
so wickedly marvelous;
we're savoring some dark, cloying mood.
Our bodies filter our uneasiness.

Smothered in red light and open as
saloon doors in an erotic Western,
swinging, swinging.
See that couple over there?

I like the woman. She's so purposefully
coquettish; her breasts like bashful
assistants to a school-girl seduction.
The man can't be tricked, but he wants to be.

"Come here," he says, low and husky.
"In a minute," she answers.
"I can't wait," he insists.
So skillful is the acquiesce, so silken.

But what would be the point
in staying? Last night I sketched
you naked in my mind -- blurring your
edges, those hard, hard edges.

Now every muscle leaps alive;
you're teaching me the anatomy of control,
and surrender. I do need both.
I see you watching her, and I let go.

"Let's stay." I'll watch now.
You hesitate. "Go on," I say.
"In a minute," you whisper hotly,
your hand grazing my breast.

©2007 by Lisa E. Cote

                                                                                                                                                                                               

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Lisa E. Cote is a freelance writer, poet, oneirologist, and aspiring "gypsy scholar" (to use Clarissa Pinkola Estes' term), currently studying depth psychology. She has been published previously in the Nashwaak Review, Dragon Fly Review, Outer Darkness, RIM Magazine, The Gaspereau Review and The Rose and Thorn Literary e-zine. She invites you to visit her Web site.