Lust, Chris Crittenden

the pen nudges her hand

like a seed, trying to nestle

in her grip. she becomes its lover,

unretractable, and they write
clouds of ink, monsoons of letters,

until desires rage, form liquid lions

that snarl and moan,

rippling across each other,

hungry in streams.

the pen sucks on her fingers
as if they were roots
and she gets pulled down,

turning into muscles

of the loins that merge

on the tortured sheet.

the pen branches through her,

binds and spreads. she stretches

into the pulse of the lions,

feeling herself bloom in a
starburst while the beasts blur

into tawny fire. she wakes up later

to find the pen empty

and withered, the sheet

of paper rumpled, the loins

slain.

"Joy" by Jim Fuess, http://www.jimfuessart.com/