WEST BANK

We think we are seeing images, as they are, as we think they should be, or as our brain would like them to be. I find the mystery of perception to be fascinating. I find the world of creativity transformation into art compelling. I wrote The West Bank about Her Mother's Lover, (the novel Rachelle, my writing partner and I have laboriously given our souls too), as a artistic expression of the time period. In Paris, 1930, life was a mixture of art, feminine coquetry, literature, and dance all joined in one of the sacred temples of Montparnasse. As Hemingway said-- "If you are lucky enough to have been in Paris, then where ever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast." Allow this poem to move its erotic energy like a dance set to words and let it feast on your soul.

West Bank

A place of faces, underground,
pearls and ties share
souls of the
same kind. Stemmed
glasses of wine,
rocks in
bourbon or rye.

The lover sits at a small
round table, focused
on her other self.
Tango music arouses,
a pearlescent hand
from a French-cuffed sleeve
swirls caramel liquor, a burn
curling in the air--
A sultry masculine art.
Small shoulders held tall,
black leather belt
enhancing a curved waist,
and a white pressed shirt.

She is standing,
partnering a zinc bar,
smoking.
Onyx slip-dress
opened dangerously low
to the small of her back,
delicate muscles
linger
under her pale skin.
Waves of sienna hair pulled tight
in a French knot;
charcoal eyes,
crimson-stained lips,
swan chin,
shoulders soft-- her
lost femininity found.

Over her shoulder,
with an earnest gaze she
meets her lover’s eyes,
back suggestively curved,
charming smiles exchanged
“aime-moi, l'amant,” she mouths.

From the lover’s seat
she is driven,
compelled by
their secret.

Standing and drawn across the floor,
gliding through the air, cologne’s
breath wraps around
a familiar silhouette.
The lover has
memorized her flesh;
knowing fingertips
slowly slips inside her dress,
marrying her sensitive waist.

“Will you have a drink with me,”
her lover adjusts her tie,
her hazel eyes fixed
on the lips of yes, fingers
slip her necklace to her back.
Tiny pearls roll over her spine.

The woman in the onyx dress
is guided by her lover and she
languidly sits, her
fingertips smooth her lover’s
black trousers.
Her neck holds a strand of pearls.
She lowers her eyes from her lover,
her thoughts glazed from the heat
of conventionally known ways;
she is sure their legs are touching.

Others, masculine and feminine,
fill the sumptuous salon.
Her lover orders
her a Kir Royale.
Red lips touch glass with the softness
of letting go, hand holding the solid
stem of a flute.
Love fills their veins
with the sweetness
of shared beauty.

“Will you dance with me?”
Her lover whispers,
lips tender to the cup of
her ear.

Breath caught and with a smile,
she nods her head yes. Rising and
looking into her lover's eyes,
the sky opens wide,
the secret is broken.
Souls are free,
body to body moving,
slow dancing.
Her head lies on her
lover’s shoulder,
she breathes slowly,
slowly, slowly.

It is a surreal moment lost
in the West Bank of Paris as
souls wrap
around
the underground and turn
around.