Breath on my nape,
shadowed boy just out of sight:
lips darting from grin to scowl —
I clutch at the comfort
of my desk,
postcards from Delos, a map of Vermont.
Wood pressed to my palm
does not stop the vine
that twines around my foot.
All this house, this family, I have built
as a work of my hands,
with sacrifice and spittle for mortar,
devotion in the bricks.
Still you come for me.
I would give it all up.
I would give it all up —
just for the taste of your mouth.
[Virginia M. Mohlere (http://virginiamohlere.com) was born on one solstice, and her sister was born on the other. Her chronic writing disorder stems from early childhood. She is an assistant editor of Scheherezade’s Bequest. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in Cabinet des Fées, Scheherazade’s Bequest, Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit, and Everyday Weirdness, among others. She can usually be found with ink stains on her fingers and tea stains on her shirt.]
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