Private Show

Poetry
Heather Robertson


Carla sits in the dark
strokes the fuchsia boa
draped over her shoulders
caressing bare nipples.
She’s careful not to loosen
feathers on the aging souvenir;
gray hairs mingle with faded plumage.
Sipping a hurricane,
swaying to “Sweet Georgia Brown”,
she remembers dancing with him
down Bourbon Street
to Dixieland and soulful jazz
as the sweet red concoction
splattered on the pavement.
The aroma of gumbo and beignets
clung to her chocolate curls
when he pulled her into a shop on Decatur,
wrapped the feathers around her neck,
whispering “Dance for me wearing only this.”
Twenty years, every Friday night
she flew into a burlesque show;
flecks of pink swirled inside Saturday’s vacuum.
Eyes closed, she can feel
his arms and hands
embracing and fondling her.
She hums to “When the Saints go Marching In”
and swings herself to sleep.

pencil

Heather can be reached at honey6599[at]ivillage.com.

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