THE DREAM SALON

Ninety-six roses, she took in for May
in a business where thick violet rinses
coat the hair of women.

Eight dozen stems sent by eight different men,
Our lady of petals, a hot new commodity
after moving out on her boyfriend,

who still is an avid contender.
To be sought by an army of lovers
with such a flourish of flowers,

and she a shop-girl among women.
Each man she led to the basin,
head back, throat arched

while she massaged the skull's old phrenology.
Gold moons on her ears, hum in the air,
as off went their wet locks.

Again and again
until she owned a battalion of biblical Samsons,
ready to be swept away.

A potent condition, this month of May—
the roses added to, her silver sheers flying.
Air thinned to quotidian essence,

and all she could do was smile from her station
at the thought of eight captive gallants.
But then, as if poked by a love

too smoothly conceived,
she dreamed herself lowered,
set down in an army not made of lovers,

and she, no Lysistrada,
had not the foggiest notion
how to reverse the oncoming slaughter.

First published in Boston Review