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STRIPTEASE

 

Heavy alarm on the gross bass drum.

‘Take two steps forwards, mademoiselle.’

Her first striptease: nightclub volunteer.

Throw out a scandalous web of chords.

Direct on her equivocal light.

She timidly eyes the band’s top man

raising shoulder-high her fingertips.

Sees in the smoky doorway—him.

 

Pink pale hands elongate across

to the straps of her black dress.  Straps slack.

She polishes her shoulders’ nuded shells,

surrendering the hollow armpits up.

And yet she hardly wavers, until

the dress dissolves, slips watery away,

catches a hip, splashes, then, freed,

is a brook bestrid by her high heels.

 

The music, a voodoo incantation,

calms her spread near-juvenile nerves

into immobile silhouette.

Infinitely slowly this she who

has evaded her adolescence by one year

makes an inspired gesture, dreaming.

With a disturbing slowness she

frolics teasingly with mauve stocking-tops,

and little by little the flesh, to those

in need, is revealed hiding in

sweet underthings, incensed by drums.

 

The thought that she is almost naked

acts like a willow whip.  Blood spurts and spots

her cheeks, and from new eyes a light

wipes the obscurity, and no one breathes.

A smile glides from her into herself

as if slow tom-toms filled her glades.

She dances, and not a knowing dance,

not to speak truly a dance at all,

only the hesitant halting sway

of an insect from its chrysalis.

 

Before her, in the darkness, breath returns

in an incredulous gasp, and enters her.

The breath, the eyes, they enter.

 

She slides one hand behind her to undo

a brassiere strap.  Brusquely the cymbals cope,

the woodwind fails, or sobs.

Thumbs descend to the thin two sides

of her skimpy white cleft briefs,

her knees lift and her ankles follow

and every contour of her land is free.

 

The music underlines her pauses

as she takes it though love’s every phase.

Her shivers infect the music’s skin

and in the dark the eyes stare at her eyes

as her hands pretend to play below

and her whole body’s shaken out somewhere.

 

And in the smoky doorway always—him.

   

Alan Marshfield

   

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