Wrap me up
in spiced cloth. Smuggle
precious salt in between
the fawn folds and press
them tighter to me. Wincing
should be ignored. This
will be my soft coffin; will
draw out impurities
and leave me smooth
as a packed mannequinette.
None will guess
of the two fires beneath
the china doll skin, sparked
by two men; the first
warming my loins, dancing peach
silk tangles up inside me,
beating with pillows
on my salivating tunnels, lit
with strokes on dry kindling.
The second, and last,
an algae-sludge slow burn
worming its way slyly
through my organs. My tongue,
treacherous muscle, first.
Your liquid taxman, collecting
a tithe of life from me
in exchange for your reputation,
husband dear. I'm tired
and I want this done
right, so if you must spice
my meals so sharply, I'll eat
them up. I'm ready.
Fold up that rag and put it
in with me.
It used to be mine
before I was bettered.
And tuck my fare to the far bank
inside my cheeks, on my numb palate.
A disc of gold that bears my lover's face.
Warming, close to me in the dark.
