Poem for a Dancing Girl

I ache to die in black and white.
My hair an explosion of blond,
mouth a tree, a corset,
silk cords come undone.

Maybe it’s the horizon
that invites this thirst for flesh,
beautiful red sibilance
of steak knives and beehives.
Each garnet bead
a bracelet of blood.  

You'll say I’m best in bed
when I pretend to be dead.
My skull-tooth smile, wider
than any grin I could show the world.

She is yellow as ballet slippers,
the day’s first fall
of sadness. At dusk my hands
roam the dark terrain
of my body, tasting of orange rinds
and spice. The bathtub
curtains rimmed in tobacco and rust.

I'm haunted and cold-skinned,
dark as oval mirrors and girls
in white dresses. The old woman
at the library, correcting errors
in the books. How one day
she’ll make such a sad
and lovely story.

Little girls’ voices in the night,
whispering, Shh, Mommy’s in the heart.
They know her temper
when we go looking for her,
all flashlights and fever.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Like all the lovely ghosts
in the rain, I was always alone.
Keep a pad and pencil by the bed,
just in case.