Ida Harris

White Towel

By darkness, I lay. Supine with pupils speed reading, studying. This space, whose air has failed. The quality of life reeks spoil, stale. Still mine enemy lies beside me, wanting. He too belly up, breathing shallow, forcing a tempered pulse, a cool temper and muffled love. By sun, warlocked, it's on. Readied I am, to draw pain up from the root, gut him out with ef-bombs and razored tongue. He defends his heartland with naked eyes but opened mouth and empty talk yields no wins.