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![Image for the poem perversions in a lonely place](/images/uploads/poemimages/268450.jpg?1491362780)
perversions in a lonely place
she wants to be loved. but this thing that I do to her,
it’s not love.
the little flame – it was there in the bunker where I holed up,
waiting out the mortars. it was in the flick of my Zippo when I
lit up a smoke. the small flame: it was her face, the fire of her,
before I ever knew her name.
before the battlefields & after
miles & years away
they rise like dust in the wind
betrayers & the hearts they betray
a man can look at a woman & want her so bad it hurts, makes
him hurt her. she wears my name across her, carved in deep.
I put it there when I was trying to write a poem.
when I drive the desert highway & book a motel room in a lonely place,
she’s there. she let’s down her hair, she’s naked & wet like she just
stepped out of a waterfall. we kiss as the French demand it. we
embrace with a craving that’s hurtful.
she calls herself my woman. she lies beautiful on the bed &
takes this nefarious thing that I lay on her.
she gives it a name, her heart’s secret, I figure.
but it’s not love…
(Art: Mosa)
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