PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

1
She came out to the litter,
that slave girl called Lalage,
bringing the cup of water,
the drink I had demanded.
She came flaunting her bare feet,
deliberately teasing:
toenails a metallic blue,
a delicate wire-like hoop
around one ankle, glinting.
(And later, those same bare feet,
I know it, will slip into
delicate sheathes of sheer silk,
absolutely translucent,
except for the weave doubled
at the toes and at the heels
---to prevent runs, snags, and such
other kinds of accidents.
It will be that way tonight:
that haughty, curvaceous slut
will strut those stockings about,
solely to please her owner:
in secrecy, her husband,
for she is a proud Christian
and will not give her body
without some sort of marriage.
And he, not a believer,
gave into that entirely.
And he now has his reward:
she walks those floors in stockings,
and probably not much else,
and lets him watch her do so.)

I blame her for my desire,
for she has impassioned me,
I think deliberately.
That is how those Christians act.
Of course, I am forbidden;
for I am not a Christian,
nor of the proper gender
for her.  And so I drove off,
wanting to taste those morsels,
to kiss, lick, nip, and suck them
because she has seduced me,
although she claims no knowledge.
And yet, that look in her eyes
proves that she understands how
my lust, carnal and pubic,
is hers just for the taking,
and hers for the rejecting,
which she does at her peril.

2
Not much to have denounced them,
and he lingers in prison.
Meanwhile, she writhes on that cross
face downward (they insisted;
but whom am I to argue?),
and through those feet one sharp nail,
her soles like bloody fountains.
Her breath now comes in short gasps.
She will linger a long time;
and her dying, unhastened.

And Christ will have a martyr.

And I have made a martyr.

And none will have those bare feet,
nor nights with them in stockings.