by Sarah Flint
He’s a closed book.
A hard back cover of control
Hides his story
Until a grin flashes across his face
Like lightening
And I hear the pages rustle.
A deep salty kiss lets me taste
The text with my tongue.
Later
In the sweet sweat of bed sheets
I gently prise open the cover and
Start to unstick the pages
His gift:
He lies wide open for me to read.
But it’s a short story:
I hear the slap of the book closing
Before I reach the end.
–
Sarah Flint is a solicitor turned gardener turned writer.
The Pygmy Giant 
#1 by ramsea on January 25, 2012 - 9:53 am
The metaphor works and the poem eases along with it. Good stuff.
#2 by jennifer walmsley on January 25, 2012 - 11:19 am
Yes, indeed a good poem. She wanting to know him. He allowing just some small knowledge and then..