Breasts by Candlelight

by Myra King

She steps out of

going-away clothes

like a dainty dancer

white waxed thighs,

meet in shadow's flickering

vertical line

to a promised entry.

Curves carve the darkness

a silhouette

worthy of the greatest sculptor.

Wedding day's froth and ritual

gone

lost in love light's flame

for, before life

sped her on her way,

the always serious friend

showed a different face,

pressed a candle, thin

in its golden holder,

into her hand.

Take this,

she'd whispered,

and give him

a night

to remember.