the woman is a fetish
all bellies and breasts
she moves across the floor like undulating silk
the air caresses her hips
she moves like the Ayasofya mosque
if it were to dance through Istanbul
the scent of the Egyptian market clings
to the arabesques of air that flow around her hands
the strength of her beauty moves me
pleasure & grace find me
freed of the burden of corporeality
I dance
Reblogged this on Donna J. Snyder, Poet and commented:
One of my poems in Return to Mago