empty house, open bathroom window,
shower air humid with damp
music & dirtied water
& sunlight trickling
in
she’s been the subject of still lifes
& award-winning photographs and the like.
she was born with perfect shape, she is
her own air freshener, perfume, and color.
peel her careful, break her gentle…
I think not.
she’s ripe, holding her
pieces together
by tearable strings &
bruisable skin
waiting
to be hooked, peeled,
stripped,
opened & split
into two
then six
then ten
waiting
for hungry palms
& soft tongue
to find her
just a nibble to rip the flesh
a lifetime to strip it off
and one inhale to squeeze her dry.
just like that she is crushed, flattened, devoured.
even an orange likes the taste of orange.
like ice against steamed skin,
her aroma is heavy yet light, and
something in my soul knows that
that just makes sense
because I feel it too
she becomes me and
I become her
oozing, dribbling
from lip
to chin to the suprasternal notch
you know — the dip
between your collarbones:
go on, touch it,
a hole waiting to be filled
where it pools, but not for long
continuing its path
between titties, cheeks,
lips & toes
to pool once again
beneath pink feet
but it never lasts long:
her remains can’t settle
like moth to light,
juice finds its way to drain
