Une Soirée á Paris
She’s painted her smile blood red,
a lonely heart drawn across upper lip.
Her eyebrows plucked fine
into loose bowstrings for arrows.
The cheap glass beads looping her neck
reflect color in angles, more than what is.
Lighting his cigarette, she chooses him with this small gesture,
despite the other man’s arm draped across her shoulder
claiming her for himself.
Tonight, the wine slips a snake down her throat,
curls up warm, cozy in front of a lit fire to shed its skin.
And because of this, right there at the table
in front of the other man, she becomes careless,
kissing him madly, opening up to him
her petal lips to reveal the readied pistil.
Her hand slithers across his chest and into his shirt pocket,
fingernails sinking fangs onto wallet, gently drawing out prey.
Tomorrow, her daughter’s breakfast will be croissant au beurre
slathered in the finest red currant jam.
