diamond street after the rain
By Margaret Norway
After the raid the streets were swept,
The milk delivered and children to school,
The men went to port and the women—
The women’s lightbulb eyes illuminated
The decay of noon beyond windows
Where other women made promises
Through a door left ajar—
Of nylon stockings rolled to expose
Pale ankle fantasies. Of violet and chartreuse
Strewn across the bare oak floor.
Of sudor and chantilly lace slipping off
Rose hips for a kiss of cabernet rouge.
Whalers off the Hudson sought
After the pantomime leg beckoning
Through the slip of a burgundy curtain.
For the fall of freshwater pearls between
Sanguine breasts to cleanse brackish veins—
For crimson fingertips tracing dunes of collarbones.
Through a sliver in the dream,
The vanity is overturned, curved legs
Angled upward—defiant capitulation—and
A niveous chemise trembles on fractures of
A crystal chandelier; the splinters—glistening
Floes on the Garden of Shalimar spilled—
Pierce a bruised stole, and the sun-dust
Settles upon a strap heel caught at the threshold.