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Red Dancer

by Michael J. Collins

Red chrism
Freed from its jar
Flows with the rhythm of her hair,
Consuming the pale skin
That tries to block its progress.

A few freckles
Show through the holes in her t-shirt,
Thanks to the late afternoon sunlight
Pointing with two fingers
To her wounded body
In a sea of dandelions

If only I could dip my hands in the holy stream
And feel its fire burn the skin away
To a place that only fantasies
Take me on certain musical nights
When the devils dance around my playpen.

I almost took off with her in my arms,
But the sound of sirens awoke me from this desire

Copyright © 2018 by Michael J. Collins

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