Ode to Hips

My god, woman!
Do you know what you do to me
with those hips,
those ample, alabaster hips?

As you walk, they sway,
entrancing me.
As you pass, they croon,
enthralling me: You
are effervescent and I
am enraptured.

You don’t have to speak—
your body speaks for itself—
to tell me to watch your hips, to memorize
their every motion, every curve,
because I do so willingly, wantonly,
without hesitation.

And while you wax on about poems and plays,
I will write this ode
and blush at your smile.