pale bruised purple lips
of a girl loved too well, the cold
flush of an eggplant’s flesh;
the sultry bubble
slow and breathy
filtering through the room.
It is the slick taste of her lipstick.
Wine, clotted with tannins, hours after.
The peace a mouth settles into
after sex. She has become them:
the blinds’ soft fingertips
crafting maps of the world,
wanting to touch
Vermillion nails peak beneath the
bed sheet. The raging warrior sleeps,
tangled, flushed in dreams and spent.
Breathy sleep, such a contrast to
the collateral-damage-flushing red
chaotic cost of her untying the night
before ripe with prevailing iron
at the back of the throat.
She was a whip upon me, smooth
and sharp as well tanned leather;
the wanted, rosing damp.
The woman is mine until waking.
Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared/is forthcoming most recently in Foundling Review, Midwest Quarterly, Words Dance, and The Doctor TJ Eckleburg Review. She edits the online publication cahoodaloodaling and may be reached at rhiannonthorne.com.