Her spine, her hips, her lips
arch down beneath you.
Goosebumps tasting the heat
In the shattered shadows
of wilted I’m sorry's
and metal melted into finger flesh,
you vow no more chocolate excuses.
You will find her name is a secret
you will hide behind your tongue
and only let leave at climax.
Her neck tenderized pink,
the rarest meat on the menu,
rubbed into color by your yellow palms,
the same hue as the post-its you’ll use to remember
birthdays and anniversaries.
And you will fall.
Fall before her with praise
swearing she is the mother of pleasure
and the father of war.
Hold her throat in glass hands
that won’t contract,
her essence in a concrete egg.
You shall not destroy her.
Pull her close and tuck her in your lungs.
Take what she offers,
but take no more.
Let her shake and moan,
but do not reach inside her, and
her golden threads.
Tell her stories of angry drivers and late meetings,
But not of Heaven or Hell, world travel or costly wine.
In the dark river, sprinkled with star glints, as she
on the bed, tell her what you will do,
but don’t exaggerate.
lay her on warm, fresh laundry.
Kiss her under the apple tree.
But you can’t
Cheyenne Marco grew up on a Minnesota poultry farm and finds inspiration for her writing in her upbringing. She teaches at USD, works on South Dakota Review, does outreach for a non-profit, and fantasizes about sleep. Her works have appeared in Lake Region Review, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, and Prairie Winds.