Unworthy:
it is the word that spread like sour milk across my tongue,
the word I felt seep through my skin,
my blood-
and then twisting in the hollows of my bones
as we lay;
my face traced by the grace lent by the man in the moon.

You held me like a china doll,
your eyes bright like
their paint hadn't yet dried
all the way;
and the look in them was the way summer feels
when you know it is going to
end.

Why should I
be allowed to plum those eyes with lust,
when I have been as cool to you as
the corner of the hayloft,
as cool as the ladyslippers in the garden
after the rain?