Her No. 5

Smooth curved and half-naked,
plump tits bared,
jungle hair loose,
she stood at the piano.

She was the electricity in the room.
It crackled in her inhalation,
trapped in her held breath.
In her exhalation was the promise of the storm.
In the space she occupied,
prophesy.

Her fingertips,
nails the same hue as the sharp black keys,
hovered over her fingerprints for a lone moment,
but a lonely moment only.

She began to play.

Solitary notes at first,
singular and melodic,
each one filled with the potential of a raindrop.

Then music,
first light,
tentative,
suddenly leapt into the suffused air.

A pendant swayed like a pendulum before her tribal-drum heart,
glimmering like a dark teardrop as she played.
Her slender and powerful hands pirouetted along the ivory like a ballerina’s,
one who conducted the music rather than be a disciple to it.

The evidence was left in their wake,
translated with the sacred language of sound enunciated into truth,
incontrovertible and undeniable.
Her very own Beethoven’s Fifth.
A symphony for her ears,
and her soul,
only.

By this song she ascended,
an angel of Creation,
unashamed as Eve nude before the apple.

In her, lives this masterpiece.