she—
she is a thunderstorm.
there are coins on her waist
which sweetly jingle
as she dances in the sand
her skin is like sunlit copper
and her eyes are smudged with night.
there are valleys
between the silk and the skin of her hips
but she sheds them
when they no longer fit her dance
there are mountains
when the music swells up
and she raises her arms to the sky.
her eyes hold you in their arms
until you are bound with flower stems
and poisonous linen.
you are pulled in
as if hooked by chains
on the clasps of your bones
she draws you in
like water from a well
you are captivated.
the jewels woven through her hair
glitter under the sunlight
as she glances to her left
and there it is
a flash of pearly teeth
and eyes made of fire
a gaze delivered directly
to the man with the flute between his lips.
in vague fascination, you stare
and he smirks, continuing to play.
you find that the girl still dances
as if under a strange sort of spell
and as she spins in the early twilight
her dress seems to be made of emerald scales.
WHO IS THE SNAKE AND WHO IS THE CHARMER?