Bechet tempts, takes what

was mine, was ours. Friday’s

demon, ogre, dark. You move

to the wood, Saalah, dragging

his prey. The day is yours.

Intended for lovers true.

The day before abstinence,

before dual celibate longing,

the long weekend. Bechet

mischievous, quick. Skin,

tanned, North African

spice. She spins tales of

half truths, a real fugue.

Fine-threaded hooked,

she binds lovers on hooks

Watch as they move

marionnetes, each.

One mimics the other,

dark-blooded as brother

and sister, the week’s

incest and the rest, hooked

hanging spiced. Dead

meat at the butcher.