The Belly Dancer

She moves,
    sinuous
       as a snake,
         sensuously,
       serpent arms,
     undulating belly,
  shimmying hips;
she weaves through
the crowd with barely
   any room between
       ogling admirers
         as she dances
          on bare
            feet.

The Missile

That snowball that I saved,
proof of last winter’s bounty
sealed in a zip-lock bag,
stored against summer’s heat in the freezer,
between the lambchop and the frozen peas,
awaiting the hot bare neck
of an unsuspecting victim,
the perfect target for deployment,
ice crystals melting into rivulets of cold
running down sweaty back, moist cleavage,
over burning shoulders,
is gone,
melted,
less than a handful of dirty water
in a zip-lock bag,
the victim of power outages.

The Stars are Falling

snow
        drifting
                    downward,

gently, oh so gently
                                falling,

dropping from a sky so black
where no stars twinkle
like diamonds on black velvet,
no pewter plate rests on an ebony table,
only snow
                falls...

glittering flakes—six points each—
in the light of the street lamp
where I stand,
head bare,
as they land in my hair,
on my lashes,
melt on my cheeks and on my lips
as I gaze skywards,
watching the stars leave their home,
depart from the depths of blackest space,
to
    fall
          at my feet,

glittering.