Although the Connection was Just Carnal
The
butterfly flapped at an inopportune moment;
Ive
been learning to forgive the cigarettes in my pocket
Like
a fingerprint stained wine glass, half-drunk, on the edge
Of
the piano, I carry his silhouette in my pocket
He
gasped when he made my skin burn up like volcanoes
Gathering.
I’ve got the videocassette in my pocket
My
blanket still remembers the contour of his sweat
And
his ruthless grip. I carry those indents in my pocket
I
will not forget that he sniffed my neck on Weyburn
Avenue;
I’m holding on to that wavelet in my pocket
This position is called servitude
In
my same old black push up bra and the royal blue dress,
The
one with the polka dots, hanging down my waist.
My
hands, tied in front of me, legs spread apart,
Back
arched, I look up at him; his thumb grazes
Lightly
across my lower lip, and I watch the fire crawl
Through
his pale skin; rising smoke into clouds
Above
our bed. Clair de Lune trembles like the flame on a
Mushroom
wick. His deep musk blooms
On
the left corner of my lips. Cherry, coconut, and sea salt
Saturate
my tongue. My hair in the palm of
His
hand, he pulls my head back, looking down at me,
“Are
you going to be a good girl for me?”
Scorpion
Sting
One
hand on my neck and a finger on my pulse
A
code steamed in tuberose narcotic
He
wanted me iced in a thousand paper cuts
It’s
the way he makes me cry is cathartic
Such
wanting will leave your head in foolish places
The
knife and the bride with blood stains amongst the swans
He
strung my hands together over missed chances
We
latch to each other like patina on bronze
Old
fashion and orange rind rendered me tongue tied
The
first time he hit me, it was jazz on acid
Dive
head down into these waters and drown baptized
Wanted
him like crushed sugar bleeding molasses
Have
you ever been railed on the kitchen countertop at gunpoint?
My
darling, even the pastor had to give me a free pass
Lovesong
I
wait for him to start the next chapter
Maybe
this time it’s an epic from Greece
Every
morning I sit in the bath tub,
Laid
out on the bed, his favorite sundress.
I
sit here like aging in a barrel
These
hands, curves, and my neck belong to him
Said
he won’t marry me in the chapel
We
do everything but learn how to swim
He
makes me a Madonna and his whore
Drowning
me is a recurring motif
I
wait from the high noon to dawn because
The
man before him loved me like a thief
No
god will do me good or him justice
And
how he own me when he thrusts in me
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Rushika G. Ramani holds a Bachelor of Arts in Songwriting from Berklee College of Music. Based in Beverly Hills, California, her poetry reimagines the intimate as sacred, blending modern relationships with mythological undertones. Her work has been published in Bare Back Magazine (Fall 2023) and Door is A Jar (Spring 2025).