He sculpts me pure as ivory, thin as collar bone.
I never complain of his rasped hands,
how he hogs the blankets, touches me
while I sleep. He loves that I don’t eat, I am his
little pebble, his delicacy. All night I lie naked,
except a string of pearls, awaiting his return.
He caught me once, staring at a book,
snapped its spine, watched it burn.
Your mind is clean, hollow as a shell.
He kissed my brow like a priest.
(From The Waxed Lemon Issue 2)