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.