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Laura, Toucan Editrice

Sunday, May 1, 2011

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

"Joy" by Jim Fuess,

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