The Flying Dress

The dim pale bulb
of the new york streetlight
watches her,
skin pressed to the sky
slick with
lavender perfume.
Escaping into an endless
crevasse of possibilities,
into an endless sky
of fears cramped
against her beating heart,
tutting like the heel of
her red stiletto.
Scared she’ll lodge it
into a sidewalk groove;
and aware of the scar
on her back blade
like the curve of a waning
moon careening downward,
like her lovers` teeth
biting into the edge
of a wine glass
on a stuffy sunday night,
him wishing
he was elsewhere.

If one could look closer
on this cold night,
they would see her
shadow shuddering
because a part of herself
shows of night light stars
projected onto a wall
of fluffy clouds,
and there,
creatures crafted from the
the hands of two small children dance.
And rings;
like her heavy jewelry,
of a princess` lullaby

In which she escapes
a world of terrors;
of bone on bone
skin on skin
and scary,
loving monsters that change
like the weather wind
“like you’ve never seen before”.
She whispers, as her daughters`
eyes begin to close.
They sleep soundly.
After all, it is only a story.
Their mother slips out:
in her heels,
in her perfume,
in her jewelry,
in her long black dress
like a bird
she flies.