The Black Lotus

She looks at it, mound of night-petals,
color of satin black, the flower of dream.
It floats in a vessel of water,
waiting for the moment when her lover comes to her.
It was, they say, the first flower made in Eden,
when man and woman were meant to know
epiphanies of vision divine, knowledge complete.
In its fragrance, dream is walked in flesh,
and the darkness that waits at the base of every
nerve is known, to feel and choose,
to flee, or yield to, and embrace.
So Lilith breathed the fragrance
of the black lotus, and looked at her mate
as a fount of blood, and hungered for him
beyond thought, wanting only to taste, drink,
suck, devour, and to have the same done to her.
Every daughter of Lilith carries that lust,
and as she waits, the scent brings her deeper
and deeper madness, coiling into her nostrils,
her mouth, until every fiber of her
cries out against the boundaries of the flesh,
yearns for the exaltation of the flesh,
for the scourging and grappling and insane
rushing hunger of the flesh.
He comes at last, and she lifts it from the water,
cupped in her hands, to hold before him.
She knows he sees her then with the eyes
of Lilith’s mate, and she laughs,
the fragrance of her own breath, a song
of need beyond enduring, beyond resisting.
His hands become iron heat,
closing around her throat when she wants
to scream her pleasure.
His cock impales her again and again,
until she is sure that her body must
shatter apart, for nothing could contain
such shrieking rapture.
He has torn the lotus from her,
crushed it in his hands, and the broken
petals cling to her, welded by sweat
across her breasts, across her eyes.
She doesn’t care; sight has been given,
sight enough for this, to see the torn flower
whole, in her mouth, to swallow at last.

Poem copyright R. Paul Sardanas

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