Just This Once

by DiNae' Billingsly
What rules have been broken? Said through the skin and never
spoken. Suppose a rose, petals closed in tight. Suppose marigolds,
tinged a bright yellow light. Still the center, hollow and craving:
the suck of a dry wanton whirlpool. That weeping sound when the
feel of licentious tendrils graze along the stem. Trembling limbs,
and he’s so black I can see the sky behind my eyelids, a violent,
sparkling blue electric. But so black, the anticipation between
limbs relinquishes a deposit: a shimmering narcotic spread along
his fingers tips. Cunning tools seek to penetrate like rays of light
diffused through a lace trim barricade. But flowers don’t open for
acid rain, sand dunes and dead sugarcane. But sometimes Splenda
is good in stale tea, so her blooms— twice blushing, twice
halting—unfurl for him.