He always asks her to kneel before him. Loves, loves to see her look up at him.
“You’re so beautiful, there like that. I wish you could see yourself. You’d know. How beautiful you are. I wish.”
Are her eyes almond shaped? That’s the only way he hears eyes described. Almond shaped. Doe-eyes, those too, but hers are hazel. That’s exotic, isn’t it? Isn’t it.
He gets on his knees as often as he can in front of her, supplicates himself to make it even. While she’s doing the dishes, “I worship the ground you wash on,” he says, and she doesn’t laugh. While she’s typing, while she’s on the toilet, even. As soon as he comes in the door before his keys are in the dish of change he falls to his knees, a knight before his queen, having won the joust.
But nothing, nothing is like the times when his flesh is hot between her sweet ragged teeth and her chapped lips are grazing his cock again and again and he’s looking down at her and he owns her just for these few minutes. Yes. His. Mine. And his mind unfolds at the base of his spine and god pours up from her throat.
I wrote a little book of prose poems a couple-few years ago called Anatomancy, but I've sent it around and I don't think it's going to get published for Reasons, so I'll probably just put the best poems up here in drips and drabs when I get to it. "Anatomancy" was a word I made up to mean divination on the body. I illustrated them with old Grey's Anatomy pictures I overlayed new text on to give them dual meaning. I hope you like them.