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the way her shoulders point
(to the dying flame)


a last oblation to the fading smoke
her musk-censer burning
scents of his fingers
the smell of her lips

soft mouth on tainted glass
the sharp obsidian dusk on her fleshy rose
athame of his desire

her body spoke what transpired
her teeth spoke what transpired
the blood of her neck spoke
pathways of his mind
yearning toward her throat
into her innards, her sanguinity
into her heart

and her neck, her front
grasped him through the air
a labored obeisance
a low bow, trembling
smoke-wisps disappearing
like tendrils of firelight, fading

into the dark

Emma Lovelace

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