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Aftershocks
A tongue hunts
the roof of its mouth seeking her heat.
A radar signals it's blindness
with haunted blips,
but he always knows where her flesh
melts in his hunger.
Just the other day
he walked into her
stole a piece of her mind
whirl it circled a far-off ceiling,
he took it into his birdcage chest,
wanting it to sing
but it would not,
for it had no voice but his,
and anyway
he was ever silent
inside her apocalyptic words.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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