He taught her the runes she now etches in 
drought-parched dust; incantations he breathed in
her mouth long ago come to her unbidden, 
invite the dance of vermilion high heels 
 

on hard, sun-baked soil. Tempo escalates 
her feet to a blur, a light speed two-step
across spacetime until she spins before
him, Tasmanian whirl to waist-high skirt.
 

He is waiting on his knees for her, catches
her quiet to tongue-trace cabalistic 
alphabets moist between her thighs. Her dance
begins again, the red shoes destined not
 

to stop in her dark fairy-tale vices.
He plays her in pleasures that swiftly drain
all purpose, but the tango to his tunes.
Toes tap to his bidding, soon she’ll be lost.
 

In desperation, she chops off her feet,
yet there is never respite. Bodiless 
scarlet stiletto heels and thoughts of him 
caper through all of her waking moments.

Copyright © 2002 PJ Nights. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.