Salomé
The tetrarch's daughter in thigh-high
boots, a primordial limerent object dancing
treacherous around your bed. Buried
under grandmother's patchwork,
you think she resembles me; your veil
of strawberry hair converts exotic features
to known, convinces you that
my momentary pique could make me
demand your head on a platter.
Darling, you could be lost; don't
yield your strawberry lips for her brutal
kiss, avoid her wanton clutch
or you will taste the rusting garment mined
from Jokanaan's disgusted morality. Drop
deliberately unconscious, turn your face
away; don't be fascinated because
this seems familiar, but is not what
you are allowed.
Don't stare at the licentious
Princess, as she slips out of her
thigh-high boots.
Single Rose
