Marcia lay asleep

Next to my African mask

Her white shoulders were exposed

And contrasted favourably with the darkness of the wood

But I liked her soft crimson lips

Which even in repose

Were seductive

 

Marcia – (Ink on the Wheel)

Marcia had finished her task

And I was ready to print

Her poems into a book made of fur

The black ink had invaded

Her palm and forearm

But she did not remove it

As she feared the erotic