March 2005 / Volume VI / Issue II
Sara-Anne Beaulieu
She in Me: No Roses

The woman in me wraps lips
around bottle of beer, fixes a stare
on the musician: his angular face, his
lean muscles controlled as he thumps
his drum. Skinny, feline man, head thrown
back, face grimacing as if about to climax, as his
steadies the cymbal.  She in me
picks his scent through smoke and
sweat. Feels his curved fingers
move in me with syncopated rhythm of bass
and hi-hat.  No roses, no opened car doors, no
you look pretty tonight, but this moment, strangers
thrusting in time. The woman in me presses
cheek against warm bar-room wall, parting knees
a little, taking him in.
Letting the animal