12-08-2010, 02:46 AM
It was the red of a blush
that virginal second glance.
The flawless flesh—
an ice-covered pond dusted
with morning flakes.
It was the shape of her heart,
or so she’d been told,
like rare steak
pulsing, wet
beneath her teeth,
sucking the gristle
fingers wiped,
folded primly,
primping before
a looking glass.
Fairer yet, and fairer still,
a crystal coffin set above
the moist earth
black soil bubbling up
caught in the throat
a cold, sharp
apple
skin
peeling back white
as snow.
that virginal second glance.
The flawless flesh—
an ice-covered pond dusted
with morning flakes.
It was the shape of her heart,
or so she’d been told,
like rare steak
pulsing, wet
beneath her teeth,
sucking the gristle
fingers wiped,
folded primly,
primping before
a looking glass.
Fairer yet, and fairer still,
a crystal coffin set above
the moist earth
black soil bubbling up
caught in the throat
a cold, sharp
apple
skin
peeling back white
as snow.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson