Femme Fatale

She spoke with an accent I couldn’t identify,

her voice was a voice that came from another time,

or maybe that was the dress she wore,

and that dark perfume and the choker of pearls

as if she’d stepped out of a forties Noir movie;

Whatever her age she didn’t belong

to this year or even this century,

seeing her was like finding something

that had been lost for centuries then

restored to its rightful place,

she reminded me of a painting I’d seen

in the hush of a museum near closing time

with the spent awe hanging in the

gallery’s air like old dust;

I leaned toward her,

her perfume wrapped me

like a velvet cloak,

I watched immobilised almost as if

she’d struck me with a curare-tipped dart,

She smiled that half smile,

she turned and left,

her hair swinging against her naked back

as she walked away.

 

 

2 thoughts on “Femme Fatale

  1. VijayNair

    The” film noir” ambience of this literary piece suits the” femme fatale” concept it projects. An exquisite snapshot.

    Reply

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