• There is a fire that burns in my palm,

    calling me Delilah and praying
    that I belly dance among Israel.
    Samson’s lust reflects off the glass
    of my Cubic zircon slippers and my anklet bells cough
    the midnight strokes when I twirl our adolescence
    into his hair,
    but his fairy-tale strength was no match
    for that ribbon of betrayal.

    Greed will suckle my breast and I wonder
    If temple pillars turn into pumpkin carriages
    when our orgasms makes the stones shatter and fall.
    But my magic wand is kryptonite scissors,
    to scalp his superman strength. Yet, the dawn comes

    and I lay down on a soiled blanket
    made of eleven hundred pieces of silver,
    I’ll look at the scars blurring on my hips.
    Wishing you would blow out my light,
    so that a moth would not die by the flame.