How It Burned When

Your eyes were raspberries, seeds

and all, would’ve made good jelly,

something wet to spread

on his primordial bread.  Love

was not in their cutlery, if one can see

the obvious plop here of forks

as horizons.  Or spoons as frontiers,

the curve depending on how it is

grasped, leading one over the edge or

to the brink right before

you runneth over.  Her thighs,

for example, when they undulate

out of her shorts, constraints finally

lifted, they can radiate as deep and wide

as they choose in a wild spurt

of epidermal euphoria not unlike

what happens after a good rain

and the slugs are coming

out for the races, afraid a bit of the salt

but more, enamored of their own

slime.  Semen has a very high saline

content, which you already know,

don’t you, as you turn around to admire

where you’ve been, how far

you’ve come, where you’ll go.

In case she gets to the clouds,

where you’ll go, to the clouds like

her breasts, sagging and dropping to

the ground at the first sign of the tiniest

drop of iodine.  Or venom. 

Whichever hits first. 

She is our country, he is our people

but it bites both ways.  Makes little

difference to the drippy nipple

which thinks of his teeth as anathema,

as poison, every time he thinks

he’ll have a taste. 

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved