Muslin or denim, the fabric of her skirt

Did not matter when the time came for its unraveling.

I was gentle, but in that way that did not disguise

The need or the appreciation for beauty

That overcame me. And it was all by design,

Otherwise the candles that flickered on the stairs

And by her bedside were just extraordinary coincidences,

And the rose petals she had strewn on her buttermilk

Canvas were placed there by an artist of consummate technique.

Still, I stood there and shuddered for what I thought

Were hours, knowing this was new to her, but seduction

Was a flame she could not keep lassoed to the match.

Her arms floated up for me to enter them and I kissed

The shadowed nave of her neck, sending her into spirals of

Contented sighs. She pressed my lips to the canvas of her

Scented skin and I reviewed the beauty of the art

I found before me, commencing  then –and only then-

The sweet unraveling.

05/09/2003

Posted on 05/09/2003
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch