April, don’t you know my charred flesh

longs to make love to you?
Come, plunge in the cauldron
where I am simmering, my vermilion,
my kohl, and my libido, bundled up
in a frothy, bleeding fairytale.

April, don’t you see me–twisted, exfoliated,
blunt, broken, sharpened again
and again, in your furtive jasmine glances?
Come, I am waiting, the Venus of centuries
of want, the flora and fauna of my breasts
eroding your volcanic rock, hissing and scrawling.

April, my ripe breath chases you, the slain deer.
I reach out to you in a smooth arc; blindfolded
I take you in my skin, my musk, raining with you.
Come, my salt, my threadbare frame,
my chaff and my grain
are crumbling, into bits of you.