Old Flames
I am wheat
leaning with the wind, the untouched earth, waiting to be opened like a zipper.
Root and
burrow, the tunnels and network maps of creatures inside of me.
My scent
like the big sky, tastes a cold glass of water;
I am all of
these things. I never had old flames
that fanned
out to torch the prairies of my body, scar me burnt or sad.
I want only
one man to wonder my vast spaces and move through
my endless
fields, his hands touching each tassel of grass
gentle,
coaxing as if to draw me out and tame my infinite fervor,
to quench my
wild thirst.
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