Sarah Goodwin

 

Moto En Paris

When he who sleeps with her
in the redolent hour graciously
draws down the fruit of his labor,
all hyped up on his own jism,
pressing the ripe button
of the problem at hand,

she, an exhausted maenead
who refuses to dance, an amazon
who archly kept her left breast,
a femme tearing feathers
in deshabille, petals flying,
stumbling on her heel
out a dark back room,

leaving seeds scattered
unprotected on the wind,
soaring in torpor past palace steps
where peacocks in elusiva
fanning themselves
will not always love you

She ran her hand down
the cool flanks of soldiers
frozen in masculine poses,
over saintly hands and noses
crumbled to a nub
Paris's vagabond bags of magic
to soak her feet in
fountains of red wine

she woke vomiting camembert
with spanking shoes and a tattoo,
concentric circles, the gist of her reve,
the hum of lightening as she disappeared
on the back of a motorcycle