Wet

Rhonda has that look again. 
Bill had best beware
on this night when the rain cannonades 
the tin roof with coffin nails
and the fecund moon departs the sky,
reappears upon on a chain 
dangling between her breasts.

Her moonstone is a watch 
that says the time is now.
She has peeled the pomegranate, 
eaten some seeds,
rubbed the peel against her loins, 
all day
carried the mistletoe in her bra.

Grinning dragons and turtles 
line the window sills.
The ceiling light is so low 
the dead can see.
She is as high as she can go, 
the mirror turned to the wall,
a bowl of uncooked rice 
beneath the bed.

A knock at the door.
Bill enters wearing his bull shirt,
his boxer shorts and
a smile as big as Texas.
This is all that he will need. 

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Seductive Woman

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