She was the lady in red,
She walked in through the corridor
Of sight of every man in the ballroom.
She shook something superficial,
With her careless wind and flustered
Something deep, like lusty aquifers
Springing forth as dewdrops on lip-ends.
She was everything – an apple orchard
With apples to pick, starry eyes
For the astronomer to gaze, a secret garden
For the gardener to find,
A smile that made clumsy-footed fools
Trip like their shoelaces were tied.
She was Cleopatra, Helen of Troy and Venus, all in one.
She lit the room with her blue eyes,
And walked as defiantly, as the lifted chin would let her.
Her red dress was the cynosure of the ball,
The doming hemline free in the windy dance floor,
Like a fly agaric mushroom – Amanita muscaria –
On top of her long slender stipe,
And the whole world was hers to poison,
Like the moon does every night,
With indiscreet beauty.