In the evening,
the sinister curl of his lips
forms the first of many
smarmy solicitations
to lie with him.
Holding me flush against the sheets,
he presses.
He authors consternated, greedy love-making,
giving up the plot right away,
submitting endless revisions,
bookmarking me for tomorrow.
Gathering courage, I grab his face,
hold it close to mine.
I scream - I am alive,
not carrion -
I suggest there are others
he could plunder.
With hostile indifference
he reveals his promiscuous need
to drive minions
through his slavish sluices.
He taunts me, tells me
wallowing is all I will ever know.
At dawn,
sated by his manic insistence and with
plagiarized grace,
he grants a partial spasmodic respite,
in which I dream intensely
of wakefulness.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.
