Femme Fatale
by Stephanie Valente

her lips; her devotcha-ism
i know you. you think about her.
with cigarette holders, netting and
the red.

i am her, or i pretend to be
slinky and dark. shiny black.
an object; deadly.
at least i have the dark hair.

& i continually think about
you & the addition of rainy nights
old window panes & the
sound water makes

the suits you wear & the
questions you ask
what are you? some private
investigator at my door?

what does it mean? to ooze
sex, wanton flesh
in skirts with mile-long legs
i wonder; it's not half-bad

i want to be cool
with the ashtrays & the wine
i know the music to play
i am tough

i could have the gun & the
gin-dripped secrets to spare
peep toe heels & fishnets
there are curls in my hair

i can be composed, posied
& perfect, with a smudy stare
lipstick thick pursed lips, to
only announce:

"why no sir,
i don't believe i have
seen that man