Mandy Descending
Christopher Bucklow
Hands behind
trill her hips.
Disjoint of leg quirks up to
tip her from the reeds and red tombs to
a joyless Charleston
in a different myth.
The palimpsest is scraped
and the circles go through.
Her hips are owned.
His hands,
nonchalant, casual,
will grip and constrain,
circle her neck like wealth.
Hers flip up,
hopeless wings.
A step forward,
a flip of the foot
to skate the thin ice out of the black.
Staring out.
Held still.
