Her attractive pain my fantasy healing.
A crowded brown room, her fixed white face
like a telltale erasure, a warning, tenses at clatter, never fully
uncoiling the springs of her cheeks, her narrowed lips blanching, the closeness to countdown increasing.
Dull pain and the clenched jaw of long mourning, glances that originate in some inferno.
My fantasy of her inferno as our shared retreat from the ice age approaching,
from the long lines and every day chill, her inferno as fur by a fire in a cave under mountains of snow, very peaceful.
Her attractive pain, looking at her face and thinking,
This is going to hurt tomorrow.
Lodged like a fragment of bone in my brain upon waking
her pale face.
Her attractive pain my fantasy bobbing and weaving.
What do I imagine, things it is painful to imagine. How can I
deny what I imagine.
The delicate moue of qualified distaste after the full-throated swallowing.
What's done to me by her most particularly wallop-packing
smiles and glances, the ones that flash back instantly with a
percussive shock, what astral trunk blisters with Tysonitis welts that I am so sore two days after seeing her.
Throw rice.