Who
am I, to sojourn inside?
This
kindly place, all of stone,
Here,
where we had written to exchange,
Me
for the first time, her to judge.
Both
ready for the gallow plunge.
In this place, we
are guarded,
duelists ready, cocked
hammers prepared to fly,
Enough
time to laugh behind a smile,
While
expecting to see London Ivy creeping,
threading tendrils around flailing hearts.
I
stood, thereby wishing to sit afloor.
Watching
her first, calculated movements
the
steady clack of polished nail,
high
upon the card, lips lightly pursed:
Slicing
fingertips on loose parchment, giggling
Yet
underscored with a haughty grin
Oh
yes, those thirty white horses
All
in a line and cooing.
Deftly ready
to consume.
Oh, she
has partaken once before,
this
ordering game.
Her
poison a sitting, ready smile,
and
today her sign is gin.
Ahh,
dearest dank apothecary shop
Whose
guts contain we two,
exchanging
soft touches between drinks
We provide
a front to guarded minds
Long
glances over dark thoughts and lauded riddles,
Expecting delicate curves to form: fangs?
Instead
finding small cuts to wary knees
Following
traceries of silk
‘kerchifs up
aptly ready for loose, or nearly empty throats
Her
eyes, a
hazel circling dilated darkness
Teeth
gnawed, some dulled,
At
least five glowing brightly
spiked
arrows: when will they call out?
Are
they ready to gnaw my breast and hump?
Her
choice being me, mine being spiked.
A
booze, not of liquid exchanges
But neither of love or form held close.
Only
enough to scent her smile.
Here, I am
a ravine, carved in dank clay
Little
rivulets of blood filling,
A
sweat-stain worthy of rising,
There, she
drinks long, and heartily
Of a
soul ready to give and be receiven
I am
hers, for
now,
A sound to be crunched beneath boot-heels
Fuzzy, slipping some on the quality of the wine.
Giving, now gone.
Follow
us then, down.
Into
the mud of my mind.
We
will lie.
