Flesh

Flesh

The flesh hung from supple 
Cords, taut and handy,
Brown and luxurious.
Molded of wet clay,
Glistening and heavy, pressed
By gravity onto textured chairs.
I felt the compulsory
Touch of thickly rolled
Thighs against me.
The glint of the onyx eyes
From under lashes and hair
Signaled something like the
Bittersweet tin of semen.

Hair bobbed and framing her
Eyes like the flaps of a tee-pee.

Her lips are soft, full, and round and
Press softly into crevices and trace 
Hills and valleys leaving waxy trails of
Lipstick and the texture of her lips
Like fingerprints Identifying the
Writer of the letters

I noticed the silver tin wrapper of
The Lifestyles condom you hid in
Your transparent Armani handbag.

I sat there supposing
That the foil would 
Open for my use-- its
Silken present my 
restraint.