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THE DOORWAY MAKES A picture—Within the room she stands framed,Leaning over slightly.He draws his tongue along her backbone,Wetly caressing each vertebra.Moving upwards he reaches her wing spurs.He licks them hard.She whimpers with pleasure.Then holding her tightlyHe bites them off.She snarls in pain.He strokes her front, along the two long rows of nipplesTo comfort her,And tells himself that now she cannot leave him.The sun shines through the windowWarming her backWhere two streams of bloodCourse from her shoulder bladesDown her backTo his groin.He mounts her from behind.The door is open again.The composition has changed.She has given birth three times nowTo brightly colored geometric objectsThat lie heaped in one cornerGathering dust.He sits in the chair,The only furniture in the roomWatching her stand at the window.Arms stretched like a cross to the sun,She hums.He calls her to him.She comes and stands before him.He draws his hand up between her legsUntil she parts them.He’s ready,So with no preliminariesHe pulls her onto him.Once inside,To make it up to her,He nuzzles her face and earsTill she softens and humsAs if he, too, was the sun,Hot and molten within her.She strokes his hairAs he pivots beneath her.But when she is arousedHe doesn’t dare let her mouthToo near his throat.The door doesn’t shut easily.She asks for clothing,Hoping to hide the sharp budsOn wrists and ankles.He got her when she was young.She’s grownAnd now stands eye to eye with him.He should give her upBut can’t.One dayWhile he strokes and nibbles her sex,She pulls her feet up fastAnd tries to gut him.When he next returnsHe brings a knife.Pinning her down,He cuts the new spurs off.After that she’s passive.He can pull himself up onto herWithout fear.FinallyWrapping himself around her,Rubbing himself against her bright sleek skin,Pouring his hips into her as quickly or slowlyAs he wants to.The room is lit with sunlightExcept where the shattered windowRaggedly reveals the trueness of the forever night outside.She lies broken below,The pavement already absorbing her.He has to admit to himselfThat he knew all alongShe would find a way to escape him.

This nasty little bit of work started innocently enough with an internal image like a painting by Vermeer—looking through a doorway into a room filled with buttery, creamy, golden light. No one was more surprised than I with the way it took off from there.

MICHAELA ROESSNER

LOVE AND SEX AMONG THE INVERTEBRATESPAT MURPHY

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