She says ylang ylang’s her secret.
Now she knows I’ll find a bottle,
and every time I anoint myself,
I’ll think of censers swinging
down the aisle at evensong,
how her long black hair
swung by the crack of her ass.
Goddess tattooed above her navel:
Spirit Healer. On her right shoulder,
a spiral ends in an upward-pointing arrow.
Buddha basks on her muscled shoulder blades.
She caresses my face. Her hands
grasp my neck-nape’s hair.
She lets her palm brush across mine:
She says she likes dancing for women,
likes the softness.
It’s probably a stock line,
but I want to believe.
When she lets worshippers
adore her back, she twitches
each hip muscle one by one
with perfect control, a strip-club yogi.
She makes the blind-to-beauty see.
She makes the lame lurch to the stage.
There are no atheists in this watering hole.