Smoother then cream,
licked up by the sandpaper tongue
of a cat, whose whiskers,
long and white, twitch,
delicately, sensing the distance,
between face and bowl.

Such is your face, milky,
sweet and silently watching,
as I, smiling, take you in,
eyebrows twitching, thinking of
how far the distance is
between my lips, and yours.


Paris Shoots
Sarah Gumbel

The strings of a bow,
trained and taut,
fingered by Love’s smooth hand,
released the arrow of Death
into Greek flesh,
of unprotected and glistening
feet.