where you were sitting with your dark-eyed wife,
together filling up the chipped ashtray—
her butts smeared red, yours long and still alight
with flickering ash. And smoldering in the dark
the brand between my thighs began that slow
burn which only fleeting glances seem to spark.
My lowered eyes and cheeks reflected shuddering glows
of candle flame and blood-stung flush—
your gaze surged toward me. Then as quickly froze,
for she had felt your heat and caught my answering blush.
You took her pretty hand in yours and quickly rose
Then choosing long love over singeing lust
left me, incendiary in the gloom, to self-combust.
by Christina Lovin
Christina Lovin is the author of What We Burned for Warmth and Little Fires. Widely published, Lovin has been funded by the Elizabeth George Foundation, the Kentucky Foundation for Women, and the Kentucky Arts Council.
Visit the author's websites at http://www.christinalovin.com/
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