In Her Eyes

In the eyes of the painted woman a dreaming stillness lies;
More than her paltry years would make one think, she is wise.
Her eyes look out of the paint
With a knowledge that makes one faint,
Ready to spring on the watcher a dark and sweet surprise.

She is painted lying on a couch that fades into the dark;
Her skin fades out of the embracing night, while her spark
Glows in her painted gaze,
Bright as a thousand desert days,
Seeking some way to meet a heart and ever leave a mark.

She is dark, from skin to eyes, and from fingers to hair.
She does not look tame, though she is painted lying there,
A long and slow, languid fall.
But she is not languid, after all;
No one is who breathes seduction upon the very air.

She has her face turned to face the viewer, her glance
Marked out with a dark brown, like an ember from the dance
Fallen, to lay in ashes of the fire.
But sensuality will flash into desire
If one but leaves her alone to look, if one but gives her a chance.

She wears a gown upon the dark skin, bright red as a rose
That waits out the day, and with the night will refuse to close,
But reaches out petals of blood
As the darkness comes in flood.
She lies there in the darkest color that still is part of rainbows.

She is not a predator; though strength lies in her dark hands,
They rest soft-curled upon her breasts, as if downy sands
Could trickle slowly through them,
As if she would let a gem 
Fall to lie upon her stomach, and issue sparkling commands.

But still there is something wild about her, not entirely tame,
As if she were a great cat that only lack of chance can lame.
She lies there, only waiting,
The viewer and the glance baiting,
Waiting for the moment when the ember will flare into the flame.

She looks upon the viewer, and gives the viewer the impression
That at any moment reality could replace the still reflection-
That at any moment she could move,
Dark silk upon water, swift and smooth,
That the moment of the movement awaits only her discretion.