Wild: A Prose Poem
Her woods are dark in places
Tied up in teasing ribbons — long and red — satin against black chiffon are all that hold together my performance of l’ingenue tonight. Ribbons that fall indolently between the curves of my breasts. Where the buttons of a good girl’s blouse would be done up neatly — concealing cleavage — I am exposed, tumbling out of the red corset.
Red signifies danger. Tonight I do not want to be a good girl.
Why else would I have agreed to come to this underground club? Wearing this little red cape and his gift — a red choker — like a brand — burning erotic possibilities against my throat. Binding me to this big bad Wolf. Costumes can transform as well as disguise.
I stalk through the club — steel bones of my corset insistent on sway of hips — every step a provocation to the eyes that glide over me — searching for my big bad Wolf.
“Who’s there in the shadows?” said Red Riding Hood.
I sight you, standing at the bar, turned away from me — your thick-of-night tail sensing my approach — rising and pointing in my direction. Tight leather pants, gleaming slick. You turn — eyes glinting through angled slits — brown leather mask — the suggestion of pointed canine ears. The cruel snout. Your feral aura. Who’s there?
