I Turned Her Off

She turned the expansive white plane of her back to me
a treacle thin spill of semi-employed sunlight
ignited the high hill of her hip
into that warmth a fly alit
I did nothing as she started to talk
“I can be cold,” she let the words drop
from her mouth, careless like cracker crumbs upon the bed
“so cold. I do love you…”
syllable sharp and short as her breath
her voice played absently on my senses
circling the room as a housefly may
when it doesn’t have such a lovely lazy place to lay
I stroked her shoulder, reached around for a long fleshy breast
as blood ran into my loneliest places and crawled
up her lower buttock like a tedious slug up the drain
she turned her head, my finger on her nipple ready to release hell,
tears welled over and fell from deep and shuttered abscessed eyes
“I’m thinking about turning it off. I can
turn it off so fast… like that,” her fingers
snapped so softly, and I rolled her
angry wing taken – a buzz of hateful dismay
the razor swipe of sun sliced
straight across the jumping curve of her belly
like a laser torn Caesarean scar
“I can turn it off…” but I could not
and proceeded, slow, friction, building speed
rubbing two sticks together, trying desperately
to get the hearth ablaze
to fire the prurient passions
I really believed I could, but she…
she had blown out the pilot
it was long since and forever turned off


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