Well might you gape or gasp. For in these surroundings
even the hard go wow. Petroushka on an adults-only stage,
where greyhounds mimic the dancers’ muscled plunge
and lift-off, crouching suddenly as though at stud,
then moving like the waves of an inland sea till spent,
swallowed back into shadow. The Moor unwinds his turban
with the practiced spell of a bird-catcher, fingers like a troupe
of players feigning drunken abandon. At the click of release
his scimitar unsilks from its kundalini scabbard with a hiss
that shimmers out to a final high and ringing note.
The blade, alighting on a mote of light, is her lascivious cue.
Columbina trips from fade to centerpoint, thighs speckled
with rosy dots from some backstage admirer’s busy beard.
Her approach is toylike, her audience-friendly consternation
all for show. In her mouth’s coi-like oval, its doll’s startled
crimson welcome.