Barefoot Twirls and Songs For Girls

Barefoot Twirls and Songs For Girls

She dances under a fingernail of moonlight,
twirling and whirling, in barefoot pirouettes.
She is a thinker in pink and songstress in leather
who carries a tune in her cheek. The breath
she exhales is like a flower’s whoop, a sudden
puff of flora to cloud the heavy, nightsoaked air.

She’s a lover in a red tulip skirt, a dazzling
ornament that dangles and baits, provoking
a fertile touch. Her kiss can stoke your fire
and fan the flame, and her glow will never dim.
You watch her from your place, never aiming
to step on her toes or spoil her rhythm.

She revels in the sweetness of the mud and
the coarseness of her skin. The jagged,
opalescent streaks on her belly are the
prize ribbons from her greatest feat. She
rubs them with a smile, luxuriating in their
shimmering beauty. She relishes her ripples;
signs of life in the milky cream calm.

She can have her say, when she feels like speaking.
Tonight, she feels like dancing, in celebration
of girls, women, mothers and daughters. She
sings to the songs of the maiden and the mistress,
the virgin and the painted courtesan, the matron
and the nymph. Frolic, twist and shimmy to the
strumpet’s trumpet hymn.

Her perfume is vanilla and sweat, lilacs and
ponds, sweet onion and bleach. She is delicious
and pleasing, fetching and teasing, and loves
herself most when she holds herself close.
She can be the siren who sways, or the mighty,
gated tower on a heavy, silent night.

She is everything.

She gives herself with honour, knowing there
is grace in the flow, life in the show. The feel
of grass cushioning her naked soles is enough
to make her cry. The freedom is overwhelming.
Such wonderful days and glorious nights, and
they’re all for her.

And when she sees you smiling at her, moving
your feet to her beat, she bursts into a thousand
sparkly pieces that flutter through the air with the
harpsichord plucks. You have returned to her
all that she owns, the desire to dance, the tongue
with which to sing and speak and the arms and
legs with which to love as a woman should.

Flitting hummingbird, warrior and muse.
With your docile silence and formerly fragile
understanding, you have told her
what she already knows.
You whisper it in her ear.

She’s everything.