China Girl
Myself, a cup:
Resting quietly
in a stained glass cabinet,
I wait for Desire’s approach
upon the uppermost
shelf:
That moment--
when the warm coarseness of His leather
dares to reach,
when the cabinet doors finally
breach;
when He lifts me
to the pursing slope
of pink.
He has not come,
yet content I remain.
(Dust becomes me, I think)
The glass hues rain my reflection
in purple and jade:
I am a shell of ceramic roses;
enamel strength,
delicately made.
I admire the pearly wax and wane
of porcelain,
all the wondrous variety that may be held
Within;
With or without knowing--
the brush of His lips
to my skin.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
