.
You thumb the smooth
porcelain of my cheek;
curls tumble
over my mouth.
Your jagged nail
flips my eyelids
up. Your mouth
forces my lips
to form a pink halo,
and you push
the bottle deep.
I swallow the milk.
You fumble to fasten
the blue satin
around mother of pearl,
strangling my wrists.
You position my limbs
and slump me
on the dusty shelf,
shuffling as you leave.
My lids faintly click;
a line of lashes strikes
the painted eye-brows.
My tongue slips
across tiny teeth;
cheeks and curls conspire
while fingers arc,
awaiting the certain dark.
A. Popp
.