the french tenor

the french tenor,
the siren-call man
is serenading my bones.
winds the dressing
around a spoilt ear,
reels of cloth sing,
spill rich syrup tones.

“gypsy, gypsy
let down your hair
offer your tumbling mane.
gypsy woman,
i’ll offer my song
if only you’ll offer the same.”

i flutter a hand.
set, settle the heart
sends blood forth
to startle the face.
and he cannot see
the turnip dark red
would tarnish snow white
with garish house paint.
steady now feet
he thinks of thee well
“you see, i’m not carmen,
nor cigarette girl.”
and i tell you he blushes
“well thank holy god,
for fictional woman
i’ve never had taste.”