April, don’t you know my charred flesh
longs to make love to you?
Come, plunge in the cauldron
where I am simmering, my vermilion,
My kohl, and my libido, bundled up
in a frothy, bleeding fairytale.
April, don’t you see me–twisted, exfoliated,
Blunt, broken, sharpened again,
And again, in your furtive jasmine glances?
Come, I am waiting, the venus of centuries
of want, the flora, fauna of my breasts
Eroding your volcanic rock, hissing, scrawling.
April, my ripe breath chases you, the slain deer
I reach out to you, a smooth arc, blindfolded,
I take you in, my skin, my musk, raining with you.
Come, my salt, my threadbare frame
My chaff and my grain
Are crumbling, into bits of you.