No regard
for the eye of the beholder,
you know your place
among the pantheon:

Queen of the hours
between midnight and three,
mother of outcasts,
patron saint of blood-red lipstick
and high cheekbones——
leaving scorched earth
stiletto marks
and supplicants
on every Harlem dance floor.

You’re a tarantella,
fast and frenetic,
quick feet and quicker tongue,
over before you know it’s begun.

Satin over steel,
a perfect marriage
of soft
and sharp
a supernova burning
at the end of a cigarette.