by Arlene Ang
Spread the butter lightly.
Take your time -- we couldn't
crumble the bread too soon.
Have to admit, my fingers are clammy
from too much handling of burnt toast.
Speak to me freely
of how you slept last night.
Lie if you will -- I'll listen to anything,
even dreams you've never had.
But it's 8 o'clock. I have to rush.
Will you be all right on your own?
You nod and look away;
you know what's coming next.
I'll call you, okay?
When you arch
I almost hear each bone crackle,
feel languid sensuality
vibrate through that curve of spine --
a brazen invitation that infuses
my fingers with heat
and, retreating my hand in half-fear,
I grapple with a black hunger
that you quickly sate
as you jump on my lap
and begin to purr for caresses,
your claws pin-pricking through
my skirt, my fevered skin.
©2002 by Arlene Ang
Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy, as a freelance translator, volunteer
Web designer, part-time poet, and occasional writer. She is also the
editor of the Italian Niederngasse. Her
poetry has appeared in various literary journals, including Zuzu's
Quarterly Online, Rattle, and Oyster Boy Review.