Bossa Nova by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Hot beat sweeps, throbs green
through jungle’s huge shredded leaves.
Fruits dangle opulent
in dimness.
Dark eyes flash
liquid in languorous moon.
My hips swing loose
inside the carapace,
proper exterior
hides a storm within.
The violin weeps, melody
loses its way in rhythm.
My toes wiggle with joy.
The man is gorgeous,
sleek lines claim my fingertips.
Hip fitted to pelvis
we undulate
through the room
then thrash all night
to our own music
under a blanket woven
from Inca breath, Andean wool.
