The Dark One With Light Skin
By Oscar S. Cisneros
The beat was pumping steady and the bodies jammed in tight
When I my eyes first laid upon her, a white rose under black lights.
A shout is but a whisper in the midst of electric noise.
I dance to a rhythm in the most serpentine of joys.
And yet there is a stillness as these people throng about.
My mind is distracted as I begin to think about
This curve that I imagine runs along her side
Past her pelvis, up her tummy, to a place where babes imbibe.
The dance floor grows too blurry. The room begins to spin.
Through the strobes I see her, the dark one with light skin.
I wait in the shadows as others make their moves,
Masculine mannequins with stiffness for a groove.
How am I to beam this passion indirect?
I'm not the kind to dog her; I know about respect.
So I stand close by - and yet remain unseen.
Thinking of that curve, my thoughts begin to teem:
I want to trace her outline with these fingertips
When suddenly I see the up-turned corners of her lips.
I whisper in her ear a dark poem mine to tell,
I'm drunk on the affection of this fallen angel.
She's wearing black and gray, trimmed with the deep blood red.
She has the darkest hair and skin as pallid as the dead.
