Issue 157, Winter 2000
All this gold and silver for her to have
a sitter's fifty-minute hour go on
past lunch. Stomach mewing. Saffron shafts
pouring their pooling heats of midday sun.
Eyes all over her & feline & blond
deltas on the kohl kimono she wears
as if she were not brunette and all his
purring cats rubbing to try her dark mood.
She smells that lunch is made, tomatoes,
sliced thin as the red fabric he had tried
to eat off her nipples, and cucumber
scent drawn through the house by a closing door.
Her mouth waters. She's wet where he touches
her up. She smells the oil. She tastes the salt.