Lustral by Soren Stockman
My lust comes home. I wait for her
in a time for private imaginations.
Five years she’s been gone. I missed
the ordinary time we’d spend together.
Girls I cared nothing about lay down,
and down, and loved, as a crow constructs
a tool from another tool, and finds its food.
My lust comes home. Two skeletons
that cannot possibly speak, and don’t,
do not, as I comfort her. Sit her down
in my living room, her quiet with her.
Grip her body, uncover her sheen outside
of time. The silver buttons on her dress
mellifluous. My fingers in her mouth.