The Garden

Gwendolen Mair

Flash of eyes like twinkle twinkle

little star, summertime, fireflies,

all things gone. Reminisce, and miss;

desiring something more. Swish of hips,

sensual, seductive, slowly swerving

glazed gazes toward gated heaven

or hell. A preemptive prison cell.

Toss of hair over pale shoulder blade,

pout of lips, colored like roses, sunsets,

painted nail tips. Sharp, her bladed words,

sweetly caress, urge you further still. Come

to me, she says. Moth to flame on eve

of slowly dying moonlight. Follow,

reeled into her seduction, hapless bass

that paid no heed to trap, saw only

glass, shined and beautiful. You taste

those apple lips, forbidden. Your hand,

it roams those supple hips of trickery,

a tragedy easily avoided, with open eyes.

Listen to the whisper, her silver

tongue, rogue in the land of did,

or should have. Her hands hold your head

now. Heed! but you have failed. Paper slip

between slender tendrils of seduction,

your soul in exchange, the price you pay.