The schoolmarm hides the little whore
inside until it bursts like a brush fire.
She puts on her white gloves
and sets fire to things with her mouth.
She is a maniac for fire and mouths.
She knows how you taste in the afternoon
after brush fires, after the hands and knees
are dirty, after the mouths have quieted,
like the hunger has quieted, and your bodies
are humming in the grass and dirt;
she knows your taste.
At your feet, in the fields, she waits to be kicked,
or worshiped, spat on, devoured; she knows
you wear your heart where you can kick her best,
she waits to be pounded by the force of you,
any part of you — to be loved up like this
at the base of the earth is the pleasure of being alive,
and the strength gained by the force of your parts.
The power she gains from knowing how to please you
and her own desires is a strength unmatched, unbound,
she keeps her secrets as easily as she takes off her white
gloves to set fire to the little moments in between
that flicker in the blandness of time passing by
untouched, or unquenched.
She is never quenched, and has no interest in being so.
