She Lounges by Isabel Ostheimer

She lounges on the chaise Legs dangling while my heart she is mangling Not of ill intent but of ignorance. A grape as purple as a bruise is dropped Between her lips, not full but soft just the same. Soft as my knees when I’m around her But twice as strong as my frail heart. My heart which is as bruised as the grape Crushed to make the wine that she sips From a chalice of gold as bright as her hair Which haloes her head like a crown. A golden crown for a golden queen, She rules my heart with an iron first That squeezes so tight that my blood leaks out. When I plead for her to let me go Release me from her grip She just smiles and licks my blood off her fingertips. As the salty tang mixes with the grape’s sour sweetness, She reclines even further onto her feathered throne.