La Petite Mort

By | 1 May 2018

Buried in the same plot,
a thousand years breathless
in an earthen mound, no decaying
skeleton but still one hundred percent
human, all flesh and blood here,
hips quaking headstone,

yes, we are ridiculously human,
pausing to lift head for a gasp
of air, mouthful of lipstick teeth
smearing thighs a reddish-brown,
kicking off heels and legs writhing
to unravel fleece-lined stockings,

tearing seams with knees beneath
white cotton sheets, and sometimes
her curls catch in my mouth, we laugh
at its silliness, or her earring catches
my hair, two femmes tangling
teach you hair’s perils,

she can unclasp my bra in darkness
from above or below, but I’ve got to flick
on the lamp, turn her around, it’s wildly
unsexy, ponytails tossed across bedroom
as her low voice strikes lightning between
my legs, tectonic plates shifting in veins
as I settle forever in her breasts.

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