Dismal light floods the kitchen floor,
checkerboard for feet tripping
from last night’s bourbon. Stella knows
which squares will hold her weight,
not drop and squeal, delude her stealth
and give away the game. Dawn comes on a river
dammed by gauzy shears, leaks to the stovetop-rivulets.
Stones, her feet dimple linoleum, leave gray puddles
on white tiles. The blue pilot winks,
draws her close, stutters in her breeze.
One turn and a whoosh! lights the burner,
flame dancers in a circle devil dance,
pray for bone spirits.
Pretty is a word that once knew Stella. But words are fickle
and don’t often stick. A filter tip is all she has,
all she is. A leftover from someone else’s addiction.
Morning offers solace with a chance to fire dance
among the tribe of the flame. Fingers trace her cheekbone
with bacon grease, sacred paint. A prayer pipe, given in secret,
touches well-licked lips. Smoke tastes of plains and hides, sage,
deer meat left to sun cure on sticks, and broom bush
sweet with buds from a spring rain.
Her hips undulate, search for the beat, settle for syncopation.
Snakes of hair hiss, bite her cheeks, thrash about breasts
that roll in concert. Slap! A hand to her risen buttock
brings shivers, a fight to fend off
her incendiary tendencies.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones