Aspen McIlrath

November 3, 2004 - Utah
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You don’t want a woman but a lanky-limbed foal,
New, and still slick with her mother’s warmth,

A body trimmed with lace that smells of apple juice and spit,
Sensual, and fertile, and unmarked by blood.

You don’t want a woman but pigtails and ribbon,
Easy to pull, and to run through eager fingers,

Her hand grips your thigh while you croon some old hymn,
The pith of an orange under pink painted fingernails.

You don’t want a woman, but a cherry-red mouth,
Open-wide, lips agape, full of eggshells and baby teeth,

You’re sick at the thought of a man with a girl,
Awash with disgust as you kiss hairless skin.

You want her to tempt, to cry, to keep score, you want her to beg, to trace maps from your mind. You want her to scream, to lay back, to care less, you want her to feel even loved, so you say. You want all this and more, for her flesh to be yours, to devour and stroke with the pad of your thumb. You want all this and more so you say, so I’ve heard.

You don’t want a woman.
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