Pythia

Amidst old smoke 

and stale perfume of a broken night,
a seraphic voice posed a question in the dark—
“Have we spoken?”

In the green room, 

yellow gloves lay on a coffee table.
She lit a cigarette,

gazed at the fine rain.
I took her scent 

felt her breath.

Her nostrils flared—

an arabesque veil of smoke
drifted into cloudy gray-green eyes.

A hot blush came to my cheek.

“Your blood is warm.”
She forced a laugh,

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?”

White-velvet breasts.
C-section.
Painted nails
on a cold-hard floor.

I woke to a curving figure staring in a mirror—

wide-brimmed hat,

black-spike heels,
cigarette, 

eye-liner—

headlights in the drive,
shouts at the front door.