Forcing the Saints

(This fever, my body aches with it. 
Slowly murdered by your killer smile, 
I wanted your hands on me. 
Knowing it was impossible, 
shutting my eyes against 
that sudden rush of need.) 

She burns and yearns. Nothing
can sate her. The music of her desire
like a wet necklace the sky goddess hung.
Haunting. Slippery. 

She's drunk on sensual nuances.
The swish of silk sweeping past
the calf, slithering her toes into a pair
of pantyhose. The slow-burning
awareness of the body. 

Her desire swells, luminous.
Shivering. She's aware for the first
time how men hide behind closed
​​​​doors. Wonders what hues 
their hushed voices paint,

what might happen if she walked in,
lifted away her blouse. 

Meanwhile, she dreams of snakes
coiled in the grass. His breath
poised like a hissing at her neck. 
The sad aroma of his eyes. 

(I am you 
I have become you 
This is all that is left 
to me 
of 
me) 

If I place a pan upon the stove 
and turn on the gas, 
the egg will fry. 
This is all I know.