Letters from a Cannibal
I plucked, ripped, and twisted her ocher skin,
each drop of tangy flesh leading us down
into lost sanity and old glitter.
Her legs fell, tortured by sunlight, her warmth
a tease of approval meeting my print.
I glazed her bubbling youth with myth and rhyme,
passion and keys, knowing no grind of teeth.
She took for granted the navy quiet.
As morning took a bite of the darkness,
She rose, clumsy, vacuous, but alive.
Now mirror holds her skin tight and flaming.
Memory led to no neat conclusion,
and while light escaped her thighs, I questioned
the sweat of pink meat behind copper doors.