This thin white skin is easily burnt
and my head is a shade of ginger.
Genteel society snubs Virginia,
can no more bear smoke and mirrors -
I make them cough, more or less.
But out here I’m top dog:
the draw that drags him hither
leaves him gasping for more;
my scent anathema
to her that final winter.
He’s changing colour
to a late afternoon in November.
The icy patches he endures
pack him frozen blue into a posture:
John Wayne with his hand
upon a holster; the polished space
where she will place an Oscar;
he’s only holding breath
until the sex is over -
I make him come, more or less.
Scenes like these together
she will foster, dreams
of an all over tan, tattoos
where she shaved her pubic area.
He’s collected up the cuttings
and rolled them in a paper,
lovingly licking at the edges;
tucks his lips around the nipple
and sucks until her skin
has turned to ashes.