... Dispatches from Dante's 7th Circle:
4:15 a.m.
your talons tore at another's neck*

a feast of flesh
a
favored treat
that lack of brains
but the ego's sweet

pheromones permeated... the smell of ***
divergent innocence
with every flex

bring napkins now for that forbidden drip
as you lay satisfied with a bitten lip

*an index finger knew where to find you
pinky gravity, a room that's moon blue
thumb and pointer, begin to saunter
no ring to cover
just a middle, taunt her