Our Lady of New Amsterdam

Her face was the fever dream

of the elite, her half-nude body

blindingly arousing. The dance
an exercise in lust and mystery,
the businessmen instantly in love
with her eyes and their knowing shine.

Her fingers dripped with the shine
of diamonds – life was a dream!
First, New York fell in love
on that rooftop; bless that nubile body,
her ticket to Hollywood. It wasn’t a mystery –
all you had to do was frolic, give a private dance.

In no time her image danced
across the silver screen, the shine

of stardom her halo – the mysteries

of sex only a secret dream

to the Olive in the flickers; her body

a virgin’s, destined only for true love.

And then one day, in walked that love –
a handsome fellow who loved to dance.
They fit together, body against body,
his gilded with the shine
of the Pickford name – a dream
come true, but their world was a mystery

to the uninitiated. A mystery
how two could fight so bitterly, yet love
so ardently; they were children whose dream
usurped reality, until the dance
ended suddenly…and her star ceased to shine,
and down to earth fell her body.

In his arms he cradled that body
and wept for her death’s mystery;
some said suicide, but she shone
too brightly, too filled with love
of life, and parties, and dancing,
laughter, fame, and candy-coated dreams.

Now dead was the dream, and here lies its body;
Olive of the Dance, forever a mystery,
where pain and love collide and eternally shine.

Olive Thomas