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A little river trickles in my teacup among white porcelain and tulips, which rest not alone upon green ripples, but swim drowsily with my lover and sunlight, spilling over the droplets of sonnets I'd osculated on the nape of his neck, when we leaned against a teabag.
When the aureate sun descends to cerise and tulips entice doze to come near, my lover, in knowing, searches for me— calls out my name from the river bed, shivering in appetence for the bend of my mouth and I, heavy-eyed, face the hiding stars;
Birds of ivory intone along with my mothers, my lover, gripping the rim of my teacup, stills. He yields not grapes of tenderness for your lamb-like heart, daughter mine, they sing. He yearns for your warmth.
I cup in my palms my little teacup, my lying lover leans on the cusp of it, tulip petals purfling his chest. Without a word, without a heartbeat spared, I, with a shiver, loosen my clench; the little river now trickling with blood.
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