Ava

Waiting. I can’t work like this. I desire to be free.
Two hundred desert miles from me the dance
is beginning, in her. Or him, sweet
no matter which. Her profile says, “Looking for friendship and love.”
She is a man born female, becoming a woman, with blue
sheets on her bed, the only color to interrupt the dull light
 
of her husband’s beige taste. Until I arrive. I light
the room on fire with my presence, my free
spirit, unencumbered. Blue
feelings ooze from her immaculate, sterile home. Is she permitted to dance
here? Is love
allowed? Her husband wants a man, a sweet
 
gay flower, a man more sweet
than a ripe persimmon. Light
flickers on the tip of Ava’s tongue, a love
I whine for, like one of Rumi’s love dogs. She is free
to be male or female, sweet or fierce, to dance
or to spar. Oh, but Ava, please don’t make my heart blue.
 
Cupid’s arrow reached me lifetimes ago. The blue
cosmos told stories of your mouths, both sweet.
It showed me the dance
of Baryshnikov, a light
you carry in your boyishly scarred torso free
of the weight of breasts. I love
 
reciting verse for you. I begin again with Rumi, “I would love
to kiss you.” Shyly you lower your eyes. The blue
light of the city glows where you stand, asking, “Are you free
to spend the night with me?” Sweet
miracle! Gasp! Breathe! Temper yourself, dear. Rose light
enters our company. We dance
 
together, hands like falling water finding their dance
within a dance within a dance. Love,
I don’t know, is it? This is blue light
looking into the eyes of light blue,
and not running away. Sweet,
wet, white shower of a woman, you set me free.
 
Ava, you dawn in me like morning light and dance
in me like angels. Free love?
Is it possible? Can a being so bold, so blue as you be, on me, sweet? 
​
Sestina Spring 2016