1.
Warm gusts of wind poach the
grainy sidewalks, plaster and concrete
that have foresuffered all
enacted in this sluggish town of
shrouded secrets and syrupy God bless’s:
honey in an overturned jar.
2.
to Them, She is Salome:
soft serpentine curls settled
on chiffon skirts and silk shirts
a divine wine of threat and temptation--
femme fatale.
to Her, They are pale whipped cream:
lofty, crème fraîche skins that melt
into sour liquid, fermenting
under the heat of prolonged ignorance--
acridity.
3.
They watch Her, moribund vultures
with beady eyes and salty tongues,
hungry for the flesh of her vulnerability,
seeking to derive sustenance from her
Sacrifice.
Their gazes form lines, sectioning-off
Her Being,
cutting Her up into
pieces,
making Her feel
exposed
4.
A drop of congealed blood on cotton,
A blotch on the fabric of homogeneity,
She at last whispers
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
and floats away into the wind
seeking
solitude.