I wonder how she creeps her
sharpened, wicked talons
on your blood-screamed bumps;
how candles cry their
Fahrenheit tears upon
your skin's sweat glimpse,
crimson in its pursuant arch;
how your toes twitter
with a hint of her breath
below your navel;
and if you choke sounds
to desperate whispers
in public closets of broom.
I wonder how her feet
follow your hungry bloodflow
below all the bustle
of an evening cafe table,
eyes averted glibly away
as other parties mutter,
mumble and nudge;
how pretence holds a tension
before full fling to ground
behind the impatient doors
of anonymous bedrooms.
I wonder how the last
gutteral thumps beat in unison,
drums soaked in a perfect tempo.
I no longer want to wonder.
I want to know.
Sonja Broderick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/should-be-me/
