The Weight of Antony

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Stands he or sits he?

She wonders which

as she lies naked, asp-gasping,

beneath Egyptian sheets:

the king of cottons,

fit for a queen.

 

Or is he on his horse?

A skin memory

of soldier’s thighs,

muscle-bound, rippling in khaki combats,

commanding his steed

with deep battle cries.

 

Oh happy horse

Her own hands slip over breast and belly,

skin burnished gold and bathed in honey.

She longs for him with stallion envy,

fills the love-sick wind with cherries.

Calls for cyanide and venom.

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