You sketch my kitchen and I am exposed
as if you’d traced my naked spine
just to see me squirm.
You’ve done this with others.
Still – I believe you envision only me
castled by marble and terra cotta,
served by six obedient burners of gas,
framed by the burnished forests of Vermont,
And the immodest maiden in me warms
with the glow of surrender –
until, duty-bound, I remember my place
and ask about the cost.
A wide window here, for basil and chives,
your pencil mustachios in reply.
The wall gone there, to bring in guests.
You raise an imaginary glass
And set me adoringly in this court,
until, flushed, I dip to the music
and am lost – taken as any virgin
caressed by leather gloves.
published in Ocotillo Review