New Poem by Greg Bell
Drawn in by the long body and lean lines;
the bejewelled ferrule crimped into place,
willowy hips, slim fit and grooved glide,
as the fingers wrap around its lacquered slats,
hike-up the hem with each slow grind,
and the chaff, unclasped, spirals to the ground.
I have made mistakes.
But you, flipped over, stiletto tip
wagging in the dusky air, and a distant
word scumbles, then a sentence annulled,
until, finally, under the rhythmic rub
of that supple, pink nub, whole histories
crumble, swept away with a wave.
Hard-cored, redeemed, and indelible --
I’ve come to find we’re not lead at all.