Hoisted
Three a.m. Silk sweeps my skin like
a lover’s exploring hand.
We spin and whirl, not wanting
the night of the Ball to end,
you in your tails, I in my heels,
under the crescent moon.
My dress thrills
to the wind’s sudden stir,
fills like a parachute,
snatches me up.
Its sash hooks over
the moon’s thin horn,
leaves me dangling under the stars,
watching your face grow small.
Gill McEvoy