Turning, he pins you
like a butterfly to velvet.
His voice the only soft thing about him;
his cologne a sharp sting of spice.
If he were your husband, it would be no worse;
you are the target, the trophy, a conquest too easy.
Helpless, your voice to protest lost
in his power, his very destruction of the air.
Slow spider approach; he draws near.
Strokes, strokes your hair, then holds you there.
The kiss, lingering as chilled honey, just as thick.
A whisper, then a murmur; a promise, then the thrust.
You are his today, and you will be again, again,
until you become
© Michael Griffith
Michael Griffith teaches and resides near Princeton, NJ. He writes poetry, non-fiction, and the occasional shopping list.