the rite of spring

slowly she undulates across the dance floor
silver lights outlining her sensuous movements

in half darkness, dull notes pound full-time rhythms
circling through odd numbered repetitions, her tempo quickens

percussive drums beat frenetically, contorting her movements
bells and gongs caress her body in the sound of sweat

scattered among the hoard of naked gyrating bodies
ancient runes intoned, words of her siren song shake the wind

she's half crazy now with desire, hers is the sacrifice
the rite of spring inebriates her maddening senses

there is nothing here without rhythm, incessant, even the end
pulses and whorls suddenly, like exploded planetary orbits

the dance floor bathed in crude light, a theatre stage, uproar
exuding in heated anxious applause, exhausted she sinks

with a last accent into a delicate reverence of femininity
womanhood celebrated through the ages



the rite of spring
[2007.1.10...a]
Written for the Writer’s Cramp
16 lines

Prompt:
“She’s half-notes scattered without rhythm.” (Ntozake Shange)