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.


About Author

Lopa Banerjee

Member Since: 29 Dec, 2014

Lopa Banerjee is a writer, poet and a co-editor of Defiant Dreams: Tales of Everyday Divas, published by Readomania. She has a Masters’ in English with a thesis in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Her unpublish...

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