Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Succubus

she made love like a scientist
lowering hips on pulleys
strung with words and alcohol

right there, baby
she busied you

examined every pock scar,
freckle, flecked iris,
traced ballpoint-lettered l-o-v-e
spelled across knuckles
indifferent to the word

fingers kneaded flesh, begging
her hot breath like ether,
thighs a silken vise;
she took her samples

she entered through skin,
topical on your tongue
two days later

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