Briar Rose Waltz
Suitors lined up like sailors
And me, steadying for the Kick.
I’ve potions flown in from the Deep South;
Trinkets of bruised black tin.
After twenty and some years of woolen-blue sleep,
In a chartreuse gown of hand-sewn lace,
I’ll beckon the boys
With a dulcet lilt.
Me, this bare slip
Of a girl.
In the final flash of summer
I’ll be thinner and loved
Like no one. At dawn,
I’ll dance the last
Lost Bavarian Waltz,
Winged fox that I am.
At the end of the night,
A warm mouth on mine,
I’ll be gentled with tender
Hands soaked in brine.
My temples wet with the tongues
Of young gods,
Drunk on the sweet
Sonata of a promise.
Against my damp skin,
Each boy’s voice, whispering,
Bleed your wonder, young daughter,
Upon the soft horns of my head.
- Cynthia Cruz, The Iowa Anthology of New American Poetries
And me, steadying for the Kick.
I’ve potions flown in from the Deep South;
Trinkets of bruised black tin.
After twenty and some years of woolen-blue sleep,
In a chartreuse gown of hand-sewn lace,
I’ll beckon the boys
With a dulcet lilt.
Me, this bare slip
Of a girl.
In the final flash of summer
I’ll be thinner and loved
Like no one. At dawn,
I’ll dance the last
Lost Bavarian Waltz,
Winged fox that I am.
At the end of the night,
A warm mouth on mine,
I’ll be gentled with tender
Hands soaked in brine.
My temples wet with the tongues
Of young gods,
Drunk on the sweet
Sonata of a promise.
Against my damp skin,
Each boy’s voice, whispering,
Bleed your wonder, young daughter,
Upon the soft horns of my head.
- Cynthia Cruz, The Iowa Anthology of New American Poetries