Susan Milchman | Poet and Writer

He wraps her in warm ropes and folds her into his fluid shapes

of twisting need. He carries her down whispering hallways

and lowers her into his glimmering mirage. He strokes

her bare back with hands of sun, leaving an

ethereal trail of heat along her snake of bones.

With beauty like a sea horse, she curls her grace

around his feet and she swims. In his pool of fevered debris,

truth and treachery embrace in a gorgeous blaze, their bodies bloody

with familiarity. He kisses her with tender fury in the bending light, pulling

her into his window, the fractured frame holding it all together. He leaves

her carved and addicted, and says he will be right back.

He never comes.