Love Child of a Curtain Twitcher
She tiptoes on the high wire antennas
sprouting between the houses, I view her
perilous weaving dance through the lattice
of my peephole. The devil’s in her cape
of hips, little revolutions tumble
out of her toes, not a spot of pudding
can be traced, all bone, all marrow composed
of snarls, barking at aeroplanes. I breathe
heavy with dreams of lightly dancing on
a summer’s eve with a girl of breeding.
Her hair, enclosed in a bushel of fire
illuminates the dark acts that may come.
Sex, her scarred pelvis weaving gypsy moths.
Forsaken, crows lay pebbles on her eyes.
Grant Tarbard is an editorial assistant for Three Drops From A Cauldron and a reviewer. His new collection Rosary of Ghosts (Indigo Dreams) is published this year.