Your ass upturned to feather my tongue prowls
around the lips of the two portals Yeats
found such love in, your “place of excrement,”
the purr from your throat giving me license
to urge my cock to plunge between your legs.
I think you’re crude, she said, to see me now
defenseless in my time of grief and need,
yet better this than dying for a drink, . . .
whereupon I turned her over to fuck
with relish her flesh, food to serve us both.
Some love . . . who needs it? She whisked out the door
barefoot but dressed, drove off aghast she’d come
for steak and eggs, to drain the Chianti
with Paisano following before beer
put both of us beyond embarrassment . . .
(14 April 2013: III)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander