Solomon’s Porch

I’ve been a bad girl—
I’ve been here before.

Fallen knees dark’nin’ the floor,
a drawn curtain thaws the breath
waltzin’ in through the door.

A crowd of men unwed and I’m blessed.

My husband’s here, he’s here tonight—
the patchouli path pleases; the trail, the chest—
something must be right because the pleasure’s mine,
and I’m more than he bargained for.

Sight bled and purged—iniquity’s fortune spurned
I crawl, I tousle, and I turn.

Burning—a waxing moon woven into the norm
I am the daughter Babylon had shorn.
“Now, look forlorn,” says daddy as he whets his stone,
soon to consume his fragrant whore.

Altar readied, we’re going steady—
already watered, I’ve grown heavy.

Sweating pearls, I can feel the East
sink into my pool—sultans and minarets
swooning to cool their tongues at the feast
in the tent of my soul.

Solomon’s interest accumulates on the wailing lips
of my Western Walls, as “She Bad!” punctuates
the soaring roar of quips affirming I’m the best
the East’s ever had.

Wisdom’s more mobile motion swells.

An ocean’s torrent of temptation tells of tawdry
temples where the world was born; the porch
indigo with the glow of the impossible proffers it plausibly.

I am a wicked girl
astride the Bores and the Bored.

I straddle a sword of wicked words
used improperly.