The Image Poet

Large bills
whisper-light in my right jeans pocket;
I hardly notice
it’s enough to buy groceries
for a month—
the weight: that insignificant.

Bells on the door
chime when I enter.
I ask if he’s here
because I’m ready—
I think…

I notice his eyes first,
blue,
when he surfaces from the back rooms,
then his substantial height;
somehow it means more to me at this moment.

He leads me down the hallway
to a room,
tells me to have seat
while he prepares,
sliding latex over skin.

Nervous,
I pull my faculty t-shirt over my head,
unhook my bra,
wondering if he is still busying himself
or if he watches at times like this —
my breasts briefly exposed
until I straddle the black leather chair.
Knowing he’ll need greater access,
I unzip my jeans,
pull them low over my hips.

He touches me first with his left hand,
forgoes warning
and sets forth with the honeyed prick
vibrating my skin,
wiping away blood as he
moves in deeper:
further down,
it begins to hurt more:
less throb,
more piercing stab;
I remind myself that I’ve purchased this pain,
and that I will thank him later.

I hook my bare feet together under the chair
and pull to isometrically subside
the sting.

There is mercy in his pause.

I close my eyes, dig my teeth into
my swollen bottom lip,
tasting sweat,
aware of the growing thickness
of my own tongue.

When he is through,
he gently wipes me down —
the coolness of alcohol…
the anti-septic sweetness of a clean job.

I turn my back to the mirror
hung on the wall for such a purpose,
and there:  the marks he has left upon me:
his pen—the needle,
my skin—the bleached parchment,
his poem—a permanent veil of flowers
on my flesh.

Day 1 Topic: “A” – Artist

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