China Girl
Myself, a cup:
Resting quietly
in a stained glass cabinet,
I wait for Desire’s approach
upon the uppermost
shelf:
That moment--
when the warm coarseness of His leather
dares to reach,
when the cabinet doors finally
breach;
when He lifts me
to the pursing slope
of pink.
He has not come,
yet content I remain.
(Dust becomes me, I think)
The glass hues rain my reflection
in purple and jade:
I am a shell of ceramic roses;
enamel strength,
delicately made.
I admire the pearly wax and wane
of porcelain,
all the wondrous variety that may be held
Within;
With or without knowing--
the brush of His lips
to my skin.
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