THE CONSECRATION OF THE APSARASES

Sarra Culleno

Natajara rocks
to tread a measure. Gets down.
Terpsichore gyrates
and pirouettes, cuts a rug.
They trip the light fantastic.

Firestarter twists
snaking smoke mists into lungs,
yanking hearts, out, up
above the crowd’s waving hands,
bounced in buoyancy of bass.

Crowned Queen Mab’s decks spin
notes placed in algorithms.
Their calculated
designs stand our hairs on end,
lifted in heart-beat updrafts.

They are The Walrus
and midsummer’s madness in
Soltice’s bedlam.
We move to timbrels and harps.
We shall praise Their Names in dance.

We shall throw some shapes.