Holiday Romance
A dry, bleached
beach day.
You come back smelling of salt wind,
open spaces.
Each grain of sand you brought with you to bed
is slicing through my skin.
They irritate like grit
in an oyster,
worm their way inside
my moving flesh,
rip tiny, ragged holes
along my thighs,
roughening, thickening my blood.
I turn towards you;
they scrape across my breasts,
embed themselves inside.
I spit out pearl.
April 1998
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