She swings and dips her voice,

drunken notes between laughs.

She hides her face easily:

cheeks thick with red blush, blue lids, lascivious lips,

a smile pained and pulled by dimples, and her hair—

no one in that sauna yearned for that hair.

Allured by the notes her voice ringletted

into the curls pinned on her head, men come up

from underwater, gasping for air with soap

in their ears. They catch their breath while her song

hoaxes and strums in periphery,

Hawaiian charm entangled in their eardrums.

She straps them with chords as she sings, harmonious

and divine, pins them to her aching ambiance.

Miss M mystifies them, soft breaths kiss rose petals,

a wishful breeze. Bette’s eyes smile twice

—once for the men—seeping humid gasps

between notes, gazing at the sea around her,

at each distracted body, each man listening.

Do you think she knows who she’ll be, years from now?

Are they listening? Can they hear her reputation

in each sultry palm hitting the drumhead,

in each finger pressing down on a piano key?

Are they listening—the men around,

bathing each other clean of sins?