Mauserl

Dainty feet with pansy tinges toes dangle inches above a straw colored carpet.
They weave and dart with a life of their own as the body remembers a long forgotten dance.

The body remembers the 49-11 eau de cologne she breathed in
as she sat upon the lap of her clean-shaven papa
and he crooned

“My Little Mauserl. What can I give you? Only the best for my Little Mauserl.”

The body remembers
the pain of a child not yet two years old,
crying to her less-loved mother for help.

“Get up. Come here. Then I will help you.”

A harsh first lesson for a little mouse, but she remembered
and passed it on to her own dark-haired daughter.

The body remembers
mouth and fingers on a golden saxophone she bought herself at sixteen
to catch the eye of the young conductor who would become her husband and share her bed for twenty years until they parted
agreeing at last
the sex was lousy.

The body remembers.