like the shyest evening primrose
desire has a way of showing you
what it wants only after it has
wound its roots around your legs.
in the beginning: a dual-edged
frame, turpitude and fervor
on one side, cashmere-soft on
the other, impossible to hang
(which was convenient because
the frame held only sidelong
glances, cloistered sighs, promises
to the dead and the dreaming)
today: scanning the thrift store
bag that hid our sex toys during
your mother's visit, looking
for any errant closet tenants
I catch glimpses of my frame, still.
it was entertaining to encase an
unsuspecting victim, the chase of
its edge, the sport of their escape.
you strode into the frame willingly
unscrewed its bolts, wound the
razor wire hanger around your hand
and opened your curled fingers inside of me
giving me a taste of my own longing.