Lilium – in her glass, brightly.

Lilium

xx

in her glass, brightly

she furls

and uncurls

her long limbs,

xxxxxxdusted

xxxxxxwith tiny creatures

xxxxxxof light.

xx

almost naked

in the thin glow

of this quiet table,

beside the car keys

and a flotsam of letters

with plastic windows,

she

slow

dances

a lush burlesque.

xx

peeling

her fingers

out of silken gloves.

pulling

off her iridescent stockings,

and leaving

her brilliant laundry

in puddles

of peach, and stubborn powders

at her feet.

xx

She,

shameless

with love bites

and rich with juice.

xx

while We,

thrum on,

through the crush-drizzle

of houselife,

making homely scents out of crumpets

and soup.

xx

Lilium – right beside us!

in vivid pink,

arches her back,

pouts

and

contorts.

anoints every eddy

with galaxies of bright things

and dangerous

love potions.

xx

We, anyway,

bustle

by her in toweling,

between steamed puddings, sponges and sink bubbles

as she

unclips

her silky vests,

reveals her powdered neck

and swoons

’til her throat

glows

golden

from blowing

heavy

kisses.

xx

We, anyhow,

tug at the purring fridge,

admire the well-fingered cat,

gamble on rain.

xx

all

under

her perfect eye,

our parade of toast and cake

and lovely cups of tea,

trailing heiroglyphys

up the wooden hallway.

xx

we pick at our hems

as she – right beside us!

peels off her satin

panties

and leaves them to

drip

xxxxdrip

down the wall behind her,

a fingerpaint of erotic shadows

on a sensibly neutral

expanse of Dulux.

xx

She

dances

for her cosmic lover

xxxxxxthis suburban air,

xxxxxxeach inscrutable night,

xxxxxxevery blue dawn

xxxxxxand in the halogen glow

of our television.

xx

She

dances

her divine romance.

xx

What it is

to be

Lilium,

unfurling

Lilium,

curling

caressing the space,

anointing its barren plains

with her sticky lashes

and dripping

scented honeys,

rude potions

and wax

to advertise her lust.

xx

Her sex

leaves

fatal powders.

Bright gold, burnt honey and dark blood

potions which fairies

skip through, perhaps,

to mark our house with fertile footprints,

conceiving sunbeams

and starlets

and living air.

xx

She tosses all her treasure,

her limbs even,

her graces all –

every

thing

falling

in

love

as she

disempetals,

unseen

and unabashed.

xx

reducing herself

to stumps

and spent rags

on our hall table,

she swoons

unfolding toward

the delicate crush

of her dying.

xx

In this ballet

she shreds

her satin slippers,

stains her lovely wings

and tears

all her pretty

silks

in an excellent collapse –

xx

like we might,

if we also

danced

brightly

into the

hot dream of our death.