You dressed in moth wings for dinner
Spiriting
down the stairs in a flustered flight
your satin hands and eyes a feast glistening
Your smile etched in silk spun out of silk worms
devouring
us like mulberries so as to weave more
as
we sit, too stiff, or drunk or high to move
our
mouths wide open each time you paint your lips
each
move you make spinning us round and round
so
we couldn’t find the door to escape
your
finger curling inside of us, yanking at us,
turning
us inside out with our own desire
a
gift of the magi, a witch’s brew, or something more
we
waiting for the moment when we can stir again
or
breathe, or make out way out into the cool air
where
our thoughts are our own thoughts
and not all of them thoughts of you.
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