Her

Why doesn’t the moon appear,

And burnish her smooth olive skin?

Its clay light makes a goddess of her,

She lives in the mystical evening.

Her expansive mind shines,

From her demanding eyes.

They demand,

And my heart palpitates.

Her mouth issues scorn,

Barbs that wound me,

That call me out,

That intensify my feelings.

We are much alike.

The slow roasting torture of the unsure,

Is my curse and pain.

Yet I willfully sit,

Tense in the licking fire,

Because it stings and surprises,

The life within me.