midnight: A Poem
a woman drinks a glass of wine alone
in the ancient liquor cellar. she is
wearing hand-me-down pearls. the lonely
december aches outside, but she is warm.
this woman’s dress is not ancient wine.
it is something lesser: the faded ink of
a red tattoo or ruddy clay smeared
behind closed eyelids.
she walks into the ballroom, the chandelier
hanging there; a pale and glowing thing.
the dress fits lovingly around
her torso and billows around her legs,
moving with her while she dances.
and she dances like hair falling haphazardly
around someone’s face.
the ballroom is elegance. she is not elegance.
she keeps dancing nonetheless.
