For you: fine lines.
I press with care;
 the ink bleeds.

I wear a white dress with a pink ribbon in the hem.
I hold my white parasol,
 sit, and exchange glances with your sharp eyes.
You lean in and my lashes fall.
A red-hot poker melts a fat candle without touching it
 and the exposed wick ignites.
You just want to play around.
My strings lie loose on my chest.
Fiddle with them.
Wind them taut to a perfect pitch.
Play till they sing.
Wind, wind, wind
 till they snap.
Break them.
 All along I just wanted you to break them:
 just break them well.

After dropping you off,
I find myself in a friendly gaze
 with God
     or The Great Mother.
I smile for a blissful moment,
 returning occasionally,
 humbler each time.
It shifts a twinge
                   down right,
   down left,
         journeying its way
   down
             the hidden pathways
  in the glass
               it clings to.

Wind weaves through my wheat,
 sun–touched,
 tender nubs heavy with grain
 lifting up to the sky.
They bask.
Would your giant hand brush through them,
 feel their thoughtless, supple stipples
  bounce upon your flesh
  before they burn brittle?
Just whim and
 I gasp as your nails unearth
  the moist crumbles of my cake.
Fallow me
 easily as deep as an entire man.

My hoops,
untouched and so taken,
dizzy and swaying,
rejoice as your arrow
 rushes through,
home at last.

Remove the label
 I’ve plied so much fuss and fret into,
 appealing to the masses.
Unwrap the darkest bittersweet
 encased in shiny packaging.
All it wants is to be
 gently warmed and melted in milk.

When the trees’ silhouettes stand
 against the night sky
 with just the stars peering back
 through time,
 it is a long, lone wait.
When wind blows
 and rushes through every leaf,
 who knows whence it comes
 and whither it goes?
There is a higher power, I suppose.

My ripe vegetation yearns,
 awaiting you,
my barren earth now lush,
 heavy with moisture.
My meadow contemplates
 how much is yours.
My lips’ gentle smile
 anticipates its creator.

Some sturdy–lipped dish it is,
 holding my heart upon the stump
 to catch the dredges
 as 5 times with the razor–edged axe you strike
  precisely cordoning it into 10 wedges.

I swoon as you daintily indulge each bite,
 dousing each sliver in its pulp
 before each tear
  when your incisors sink into my flesh;
when you swallow, it is my heart’s contentment.

My still heart beating around
 my fixed gaze,
mischievous imp mocks me,
 places a bow in my manikin hand
 and an arrow in my wooden fingers.
His ruddy flesh fashions my limbs
 into a dangerous tension.
In my disbelief I hear
 his flushed cheeks command:
“Take her out!”