Pythia

Amidst old smoke and stale perfume of a broken night,
a seraphic voice
posed a question in the dark—
to tremble
to hear a moan
to sink into unguent warmth
in a sacred retreat.

In the green room,
yellow gloves lay on a coffee table.
She lit a cigarette and gazed at the fine rain.
I took her scent and felt her breath.
Her nostrils flared,
an arabesque veil of smoke
drifted into cloudy gray-green eyes.

A nicotine-stained finger crossed my lips.
“Have we spoken?”

A hot blush came to my cheek.
“Your blood is warm.”
“I read Bishop Sheen.”
She forced a laugh
and blew a jet from under dark lashes.

“I adore Coblenz. Kiss me.”
She tasted of tobacco and stale mint.
I slid fingers to her nipples.
Her bosom swelled, a tremor crossed her face.
“The wench is dead—would you like a trip to Greece?”

(That’s where I want to go.)
White-velvet breasts
C-section
painted nails
on a cold-hard floor.

I woke to a curving figure in a wide-brimmed hat,
black-spike heels,
cigarette and eye-liner
staring in a mirror,
headlights in the drive,
shouts at the front door.