The jungle edge stirs,

in light from moon,

fireflies, stars.

The small, neat man

stands in his ordered porch,

for a breath of air, before retiring.

Or so he said to himself,

not knowing his blood was speaking

hidden words.

Leaves rustle, monkeys chatter,

the sky clouds over.

Something is stirring out there,

something is stirring in here,

in the dark his throat tightens.

 

The moon frees herself,

shines on his picture book garden

illuminates the silver, shockingly iridescent,

paralizingly naked figure

standing goddess-like

on his manicured lawn.

 

He breaks the trance.

He moves.

One step.

Two.

And she is a man,

godlike, Atlas, Hercules

Another step and he is again a woman,

a fourth and the man again shimmers into being.

“Impossible,” he whispers,

just two arms-lengths from the creature.

“Who are you?”

 

She he turns slowly to face him

and with every inch he she changes

she he she he she he she he.

“I am human,” he she says,

beginning to dance.

And as she he dances,

the jungle pours forth wild blood-stirring music.

The dance speeds, speeds, speeds

she he changes, changes, changes,

god, goddess, man, woman,

faster, faster, faster,

now a luminescent blur, the air hums,

and she he whispers

“join me”

 

“How can I, the dance is so fast!”

“This is slow, this is slow,

if only you could know.

you are a dancer too,

it's true,

I could dance with you”

 

How can a man turn down

such an invitation?