God, an androgynous childe,
an avatar of muslin, a linen whisper,
starched, turning turning, a leg cradles
into a V, pointed east, west
(A virile, crude me posted to a chair)
A mild body straight at the waist then
a triangle; God mimics a turn
in a cream gown; sweeps,
quivering beneath the torso,
not quickly, but delicately slow, like a gliding
erne: people scurry, people rush,
scatter, swim, splash and go —
but God turns a laggard pirouette,
a brief muse, merely monochromatic
and out of focus, a dim apparition
spoken out of vesperal incense.
Invading choir, God does a retiré,
then evanescence, a flush smooth wipe
from the serviette.
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.