She dances only in her necklace,
scotch-lit surely. He touches his glasses.
Nightie-less, dugs whipping, hair sprung,
some music inside, out, wet tongue
tip at her lip, no mere palsied shuffle,
both bony feet lifted, elbows awful.
Shakespeare’ s banshee of wailing parts,
a woman with hair, a woman with warts.
He’ s fixed to the floor. Dear Heloise:
do other presumed-sane mothers do this —
wait in the dark after the ball
to strip for their sons at the end of the hall?