Short Story, Long Skirt

The long, olive green peasant skirt
swings ‘round my ankles when I twirl.
SoHo and bohemian with embroidered ivy
curling up the side.
Clinging just there, free-falling here…

I am a gypsy in this skirt.
Able to move mountains, cast a spell.
Make you fall in love.
Make you want to die.

I am irresistible in this skirt.
Not by what it reveals,
but what it conceals.
Dainty ankles,
Gold toned calves,
Sumptuous thighs…
The tempting nectar held within.


He is powerless.
Moving on sheer instinct, he pulls me close and slowly
hitches the skirt up
until it hovers just above my hips.
Proclivity to contact-
weakness evolves into strength.
His hands move freely.
Under the fabric.
Over my skin.
Skirt way above my waist,
a thumb strokes the front of my throat
while remaining fingers
curl behind my neck.
An unassuming…but so very
deliberate touch.


Bewitching in its embellished splendor,
I can hear the gold coin decals
jingle at the hem with sensual movement.
The long olive green peasant skirt
in a pile on the floor...

I am a gypsy still.