Comme une Tornade de Papillon
This parade of O’s felt in the French
kiss of la petite mort encircles the night
in a velvet bloom. Throb of rose,
a hundred wings alight in a cyclone.
[Pity men their pocket rockets, their brief,
blinding flares.] Women metamorphosize,
pulse within silken chrysalises, unleash
ecstasy from rapacious epicentres--
our butterflies hilltopping the eyes of storms
with an awareness so adamantly erotic.
This is the slow tour-de-force of a merry-go-round,
the loop-de-loop dance of s’evoyer en l’air,
wingspan wider than any galaxy. O, colour
whirling these night skies. O, yes, the flutter
of my own compass, crest after crest, this insatiable
tempest, this rapture rising again again.
Cyndi MacMillan poetry has recently appeared in Grain Magazine and the Fieldstone Review. Her verse, short fiction and novel-in-progress resentfully compete for her attention. She lives in New Hamburg, Ontario, home to North America’s largest working water wheel. Coffee and family allow ideas to percolate.
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