Femme Fatale

Even our names sound delicious:
Pandora, Delilah, Bathsheba, Lola, Gilda

They speak of us in the language of pastries—
cream puff, tart, cupcake

They drool over us, put their hands in our bodies
Oh honey, Oh sugar
as if plunging into layers of white meringue

We dissolve behind veils and trench coats
our faces soon dimming
the whiskey of their tongues already forgotten

Around us the scent of orchids and tobacco flowers
bruised and senescent
blooms into the night air, thick with gunfire

Copyright © 2006 Jeannine Hall Gailey All rights reserved
from The Eleventh Muse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission