For Emily

by B. Ruth Rinehart

Thick lips are thin-skinned tonight.
Blood pulsates, brushing the pink.

I mounted him
a hard pulse on my thigh.

Was Dickinson ever to know this?

Weak from her juice
spurted against tender flesh
mortality draining into the rug
becoming the floor

The floor I stand on
The floor standing under me
understanding me

Quenching my thirst with my own fluid.

© 1984, B. Ruth Rinehart



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