Treasure Island

Glen Martin Fitch


FLESH


My palm fits curve to bulge.
So heavy, firm,
your freckled skin conceals
a softer spot.
Your spicy scent
betrays a hint of rot.
Your pentagram
protects the magic germ.
I pull you close
to view your nether side.
I fear I'll find
a flaw or wound or scar.
Below I spy
the sun-shy withered star.
Within the past and future both reside.
Once grateful hunters
asked the beasts they'd slain
to grant them their forgiveness
with a prayer.
Just so I close my eyes.
My teeth I bare.
My body, breed and spirit
to maintain,
I lick my lips with enzymes.
I prepare for gritty,
crisp and gushious
bursts of pear.

Submitted: Thursday, October 17, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, October 23, 2013

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