Encarnación by David Preston

She wasn’t a passionate woman. She was passion itself.

-Lampedusa

When this one dances

it’s the world that spins

while she stands motionless

at its center

Longing rolls off her body

like muted thunder

Dry rivers of anguish run afresh

into the sea of grief

Turning on a heel

she clutches at conjured specters

staring into the middle distance

at her tormenters

This is no dance

it is a thing she becomes

as a bit of lace kissed by the flame

relinquishes itself in frantic ecstasy

and becomes its lover

Never touching her

still are we consumed

like delirious moths