Likes
Hellfire inside bellybutton and the back of her neck
Likes swollen breasts press-up against grazed knees
Breathing low. And fast. Unable to see.
High-tide to the bosun
Bare feet dangling over the edge, polish-chip
She invites not knowing, skin-shedding,
Greedy.
It's her trial by fire, it's exploratory foreign fingers
It's digging inside her mouth, probing for cavities, for golds
For previous men she might've kissed.
It's jealousy made palatable, made logical, made matte
Her young skin is nothing if not matte.
In women circles, which she harbors great resentment for,
She commiserates. Wouldn't be caught sprawling nude
Not in grandmother's eyes. Sinners beget sinners,
Forget when the postman arrives, lace up the apron,
Dust off the loveseat. Where? Sit why, when you can lie
On the floor, in the dirt, under nightsky?
Thankfully, she is not always amongst women.
Can't bear the scent of them, the sex of them for long.
The needling and tongue-tying, the sensible shoes
When she was born barefoot, and all the woods knows it.
Nighttime. High-time, In the candlelight, showtime.
She's greedy on the witching hour.
Takes the burning all for herself, inside herself.
Likes to think it of herself, only the steam gets to be too much.
Of what she's tasted of desire, and licks her lips and tastes again.
Across the street, all windows are gone dark.
She'll kiss the feet of the one who put her here.
She'll give thanks for hot water.
Towels it off. Descends. Relives.
