"Scorpion" by Shar Senor Carlyle

Scorpion

Autumn light pours through blinds,
shines clear and bright as mid-day sun,
skin bleached white as desert bones,
the carcass of a fallen man,
the habit of a nun.

Heart beats in your bone thin chest,
I feel its rhythm in my own lungs,
smell your hair, paint dust, our sweat,
taste your skin in small sips,
like good medicine.

A cacophony of voices, boulevard traffic,
background score for a Saturday mild,
only your burdened breaths reflect the strain,
the unshakable truth --
she bears your child.

Our legs entwine, tongue mingling
skin stretched taut against your shell,
you soften me up for the final blow --
the gift stings.

Sunday blood stains white cloth pink'
tears of a empty womb unfilled,
you long to drown in my warmth
and the welcoming wetness
not yet stilled.

I watch us through the skylight,
you ask me if I want you small,
and hard, real and stained.
Only another scorpion
would walk these sands again.

Shar Senor Carlyle

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