this was no purple blossom romance, love. it was me, sucking your lips at the bar, on the dance floor. it was you, pinning me against the wall, clasping my hand on the drive home. it was me, asking questions, you, straddling my hips while we lie on the wet grass as the cops drove by and shone a light. it was our laughs that followed, you placing my finger in your mouth, and i noting the deep blue of the moon, the brown gold of your hair in my hands, and again, your voice soothing even the stars. |
the first rule of torture
she prepares for slaughter—pins her hair up, exposes the neck i had my teeth on just last night. i stay behind. i’d rather not see them cut her open or grab hold of her silken wrists. she voices her worry as the haloed, red sphere in the night sky appears: maybe this is a bad idea. later she would tell me, eyes rolling back, about the boy who danced with her in his kitchen as an old french song played from a gramophone. |
O. Ayes received an MFA from University of Missouri–St. Louis where she served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge. Her poems appear in FRiGG, Blackbird, Crab Orchard Review, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She blogs at oayes.org.
