Fiona Mackintosh
Jun 4, 2011
Goddess on the Last Train
I want to be the goddess on that train.
Such lush, bountiful, languid disregard.
Such casual ease, resolved indifference.
​
The architecture of cloth does not bind her
but spills her softly rounded flesh,
stretched out, in confident display.
A lioness,
sated after feeding.
​
I want to be the goddess on that train.
No constraints, of place or time.
​
Such indolent, sprawled, reclining attitude,
such unself-conscious grace.
​
Commanding the body she inhabits.
​
Content in its animal softness.
​
Goddess radiates power.
Stretches arms, cross behind.
Arches back, flesh revealed.
Releases arch, flesh concealed.
​
My Lady of Travellers,
My Bohemian Queen.
​
Cascading mane of rich brunette,
tossed over shoulders, casually exposed.
Sun-kissed freckles on creamy canvas
tempts the eye,
downward,
following curves.
​
Goddess sandals sparkling, gold,
in the neon light of the train's harsh glare,
bouncing, slowly, on confidently crossed knee.
​
And the man who stands before her
in his navy three-piece suit,
as he tells her of a Jewish miracle,
that I no longer remember;
only that the tale involved war,
as it so often does,
and abandoned farms.
​
His eyes averted, awkward.
For to look upon the Holy of Holies,
is to be blinded.​
A man cannot look upon a goddess,
and be unchanged.
Then she tells him, in dismissive tones:
"You and I could not be more different,"
as she gazes past him,
into the evening warmth.
Fiona Mackintosh (© June 4, 2011)