The Taste of She is Sharp
Girl
makes me cross my legs,
hands clasp in this neat lace lap.
Pray
I lose myself
to whichever braver diety
begs me forward,
beckons me to scoop
all of my too ripe fruit
into a dainty pile of rind
just before
a hot summer solstice.
Woman
is that blue ribbon winning
melon
fertilized
plowed
harvested
when in season.
2 thoughts on "The Taste of She is Sharp"
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this poetry thing is pretty sharp
the images pull you along
esp: all of my too ripe fruit
into a dainty pile of rind
This is one sexy poem, Madison.