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Showing posts with label Anna Donovan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anna Donovan. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

The Blade

by Anna Donovan

You call and I sit
unsteady on a hard bar stool,
stare at your back
and hear your words tempered
by grinding sounds
steady on a whetstone.

"I have something for you,"
you say,
and the glint of steel
speaks of gliding on soft flesh,
pliable and nude.

You slice sweet peppers,
hold each deliberate sliver
to my lips
and I know the taut ease
of fingers round
a blue Lace Agate handle.

"I got them from a client
with a baby Grand piano,"
you say, as my blood gathers
in a gush of silence,
"he grows them in a solarium."

And in a glass room I
seize a blind knowledge:

I want the smooth silk dance
on the blade's beveled surface,
the tongue taunting premonitions
gilded and heavy over sharp metal.

Monday, July 5, 2010

He's on to something

by Anna Donovan

Down Marsh Lane at high noon today
he's a one man freedom parade
in a red, white and blue bandana
and a roguish smile as he throttles
through traffic
with the effortless ease
of knowing fingers.
 He's onto something
of a lawless and aimless
abandon,
a rush simmered
and sustained
on the road.

At the stoplight
he caresses the bare,
well-toned leg
of the woman behind him,
she clings to his back,
claws at his chest.

He throws
his head back
and she leaves a trail
of blond dirty,
wet love bites
on his neck,
and I see them
naked, tangled, messy
and grimy,
her legs a taut noose
round his torso.

He's onto something,
and it wafts
down my spine.