Where were your thoughts

That spring evening under a pomegranate tree,

My nose striving to push through your pale chest

For one whiff of your golden apple heart?


I rode on the backs of starving oracles

Whose eyes still bleed from vulture kisses.

Did you already forget

The trickle of your robes and the soft

sigh of the tolerant grass as they fell?

I remember the screams of

Ares’s gore clogged trumpet.

But, you weaved soft palms through my hair

Well I worked my tongue around

From your sacrum.

All I felt were the desperate hands

Of drowning Phoenicians, chuckling up bubbles.

At least, please, tell me you know

What passage escaped your thin lips

While I tightened my belt to go?

Why, I smiled and whispered

You’d do best to forget this.

As you wish, Milady.

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