N. Antosca


       for Margarita

Delirious, we gnawed lollipops that tasted like viscera.
     We had made them with each other as ingredients.

And I had wounded you, bruised the tender hands of your cupped hips
a dull pale yellow.  Like sulking buttercups
those smudges lingered days before
they faded and became ghosts.


Swimming in bliss, we saw angels like giant silverfish
crawl in the window, speaking quietly
  in their metallic language.
Dripping light like wet pearls, they scuttered up the wall,
slippery to our eyes, reflecting our peach-colored nakedness
in their protean, mirror-like bodies.
And as we made love, they clung to the ceiling, quivering,
maddeningly alert.  I sensed the vibrations of their antennae
even as I climaxed inside you with a stuttering throb.

But like butterflies, angels die quickly, and within days
they were husks the color of lead and ashes, dead sentries to watch
our endless, tireless coupling. 


When finally we approached the carcasses, our bodies glowing gently,
we broke off pieces of their arid flesh
and ate them impulsively -- they tasted like old candy, or
               dust with a sugar-glaze.

Inside the dry shells were reservoirs of rich, dark blood,
thick as sweet syrup trickling down our throats.  Later, when we were
wet like seals and your face was pressed to the shower tiles, you reached back
to claw my hips as I plunged into you;
        I remember you whimpering happily

and clenching your ass like a hand
around my obdurate cock.  Nymphs swarmed
  in every red cell which tumbled from atrium to penis,
and in my delirium I nuzzled your hair, chewed on it,
          tasted the sugary particles that composed it,
tasted the apple smell of your shoulders . . .

                           How the memories glisten . . .

I am dust suspended by false light,
spiraling in the air,
waiting for you to lure them back to my bed with your scent.

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