The beating of a drum wrangles her eyes away

from the vase of roses on the vanity.

Slipping down her cheek,

her intention finds nowhere to hide

and in sudden panic

wraps itself in a bullet-proof smile.

How simply wonderful it is,

her perfectly-stitched imitation of a greeting,

her exquisite choreography of

glad to see…

 so happy you could…

 won’t you please..?

The well-honed manicure, the black silk stockings,

The razor-sharp points on her stiletto-heeled pumps

Just part of the dance leading up to the divine ballet

of one hand caressing another hand

while another hand

makes whoopee in the wings with an ivory-handled dagger

and waits for its chance to bring the curtain down.

Later

when all that remains of the party

is a smear of crimson lipstick on a tissue in the wastebasket,

a bit of fois gras going hard on the rug under the table,

a spot of blood drying on the starched white collar

of someone-or-other’s tailored shirt,

her hunger waits until she’s not looking,

the apartment silent and dark,

her duplicity hushed with the weight of sleep.

And then

it makes its waxen way on spider feet

into her bitter bed

slithers up between the satin sheets

breathes itself into her darkest dreams

whispers a stolen secret into her ear

and settles soundlessly into place

on her face

like a chenille moth.