Mosquito MaskShe slips on her mosquito mask
before we go out, feeling every
needle sink into her skin.
I try to ignore the redness,
her pain caused by ennui, staring
at the ficus in the restaurant
or at the couples talking into
their pasta. Love has been relegated
to a couple of body movements
made secretly under the table.
And then when we get home,
she takes it off and I get to taste
its poison, drinking it slowly to feel
her still writhing in my arms.
Poetry by Christian Ward
Read 847 times
Written on 2006-12-13 at 23:21
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