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.

“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.

Her bosom swelled,

a tremor crossed her face.

“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

staring in a mirror,
black-spike heels,
cigarette, eye-liner,
headlights in the drive,
shouts at the front door.