for Saraghina, a fictitious character of Federico Fellini based on a real woman

You sit in your hut that rests on the sandy,
dark beach while you brush your hair and count
the twenty-eight fucking dollars you made
showing your flushing tits to the children
That looked away as fast as they looked on.
Your maddened red, bulging eyes popped
from their sockets every time your hips swayed
left and your tangled mane shook right like waves
of kite strings that flew like streamers on a maypole.
You kicked the sand this way
and then went along and kicked it that way,
and you had dirty desires and lusty lumps
of femininity that were squeezed and manipulated
into your black skirt which you pull down modestly
like a twelve year old cupid. Smoothing out
the wrinkles while sensuously brushing your ass,
then you began your sinister, hedonistic dance
while the village boys clap sporadically like howler
monkeys with vivacious earnest and you know
that they clap for you and your mambo and your finger
tips that slowly invite the boy with a cape and a cap
that came from that catholic school, just down the road,
filled with the sinners dressed as hardened priests.
You can swear that a couple of them have visited you,
But today you danced with the boy, you always wanted
a boy and lifted him and he was in love with you in that
finite moment of weak seduction while you thought
of what you were going to eat for lunch, perhaps
greasy bacon and bread to go along with it,
you thought and you brought the small child up
into your arms not knowing that he would remember
that embrace of for lifetime, even though he stopped
loving you. You will forever be engraved in the harem
of lost loves and ideal women. Forever whipping away
women with your gyrating hips and melancholic grinning
mouth kissing away the blues and yellows and every
other color in the rainbow.

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