I.
Her flesh burns, and she despairs at this dependency.
Caught between terrene and
air,
it is
only with eyes shut,
that she knows what she wants,
wide awake,
relentless fist of guilt is stalking.
Fenced in by so many false promises and blocked from light, she is yielding
prey.
The primal earth beneath her feet of clay both welcomes and reminds.
If only she could bring herself to say his name.
II.
He is close.
She feels him in the
sway of ghost like gusting wind,
and in the feather
soft seconds of silence she
sometimes
comes to,
harlot, scarlet heart
pounding out words
later forgotten.
She arches like a cat under the stroke of sharpened senses,
keeps time by the inhalation
that somehow
filters out the train
of lower thought.
She thinks
she
sees
his nostrils flare,
and she
cringes,
lowers prostrate,
tries to
swallow back the gushing
and the bitter taste of shame that prickles backside of her tongue.
When quiet
breaks,
the pieces pierce
and the fierce concreteness of
where she's always been
cries
out in triumph.
If she could
but gather these fragments,
and present
them as an offering
she would hear him
say her name.
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