Her skin, soft and white, growing amid the forest moss.
I love to back out of her fragrance, for she leaves her stigma
All over me. Sticky with dew and pollinated blood.
I am trapped by her imagination.
The craving and feeding of herself
Only orchids can do this. Alone, passionate, desire.
Until the union of us all, she stigmatizes for darkness
Flowering energy of being kept in her hothouse.
Ivory legs splayed, the petals of memories beyond time.
In my hypnotized daze of love, I creep onto her silky waves
Transfixed motion, pollinating overflow onto me
Until I burst from confusion and dark hate.
She keeps feeding herself from my body,
A female wild Jesus in the tomb of a forest primeval.
I can’t cut her, keep her, or grow her on my own!
Only the insects can have her, creeping inside,
Sucking the stigma of eternal wetness,
Sapping the strength of old and young men,
Until they are all blinded forever at her altar of sin.
2022 by James Musgrave