Demure She pours the cabernet to show you its flame. You've never looked at rubies this way before. Your large hand lifts the goblet to examine love's color. Isn't a stem sensual she thinks; like Monet's Poplars on the Epte. You wonder if this is how she tastes — dark and musky like earth. You want to see her eyes dim to red smoke, hear her voice knot around yours in a husky tangle. Thoughts quiver around the poets’ table like sunset moths. It's hot so she snaps her fan and the room opens into brocade. Tonight she’s a dark episode. Everywhere you touch burns. How much heat will you believe? © Lois P. Jones