Erin Lyndal Martin

Moonflower

My first dominatrix was a butterfly
I siphoned away from a masquerade ball.
Guided into my shoe, I felt the symmetry
of her wings on my instep as I elbowed
us through the crowd. All my velvet
was ink-dark all the way, the passenger pose
in a taxi. She said she’d tell me when
to wait for her, and how fast.
In no time she had me crawling
through the grit of fire opals
while she perched on the radiator.
She stretched an indifferent leg.
Most of her was blue-black
like a bruised kimono.
A smear of violet crested her veins.
I put an asteroid in my mouth,
panting up at her while she yawned.
I filled my hollow bones with moss
and kept my fevers to myself.
When she finally released me,
I was now a shimmering thing.
The air stung my body,
broken and broken free.  

--
Erin Lyndal Martin is a writer based in Blacksburg, VA. Her poetry has appeared in Gigantic Sequins, Cosmonauts Avenue, the Collagist, and elsewhere. She's on Twitter at @erinlyndal.