A woman collared with the sea, seagulls for earrings, her two dogs corralled
scourges the shore, her muscles cudgeling the spindrift of her footfalls
She’s a diurnal Hecate.
Overhead, a helicopter whirrs away like an exposed culprit.
Dyed with the maccha green of the weekly garden club,
I circumambulate the boardwalk bench.
A couple allofeeds each other its love story.
The woman pounds the seashore, her muscles dark with dolphin lust.
The spume is a desecrated wedding veil.
A child sprawling a red blanket
collapses into the sand of nonbirth.
My ice-cream self-cannibalizes in the 10 A.M. sun.
The seagulls lance the beach with their cries.
The beach retches its shells.
The woman and her dogs ripple like filigreed umbilici.
I lurk behind the bench how an estranged daughter lurks
out of the frame of a family photograph.
I cock my fingers around the woman
and fix her scene with afterbirth.
A Female Thing
She’s a rack of lush/blush womanish knacks:
a fine jeweled spine
mined from too many men-caves,
a tongue she coils into a red-hot rose,
a lusty liver to break down men-bits.
She’s opium, an opening
of geranium petals,
her hair incense sticks,
her sex a bed of coals, a bowl of strawberries
she spoons to men-mouths,
a piano tune, desire’s notes & syllables — LI-BI-DO, LI-BI-DO.
I Want Her
I want her.
She’s that sprayed-with-perfume
letter I didn’t write & she’s the lacy panties
I strung around someone’s arm
& she’s got the libido
I’d like to chew how I chew gum
& oh how she grooms the wind
w/ manicured-in-pitch-red fingers! I want her nipple:
silk & milk & silk & milk
I want the L-s of her labia.
I want her pony her peony all her lucky charms
& all the men she rides on wet nights
& all the pearls she pries from mouths.
I want to lick her lipstick shtick.
a. lure is a Rutgers student of global humanities and creative writing. She enjoys poetry, photography, and traveling.