The Little Flame
Because we like pretending,
I lash your slender wrists
to the thick upper bed posts,
and your feet to the bottom.
Your boyfriend is watching
from his photo on the dresser,
and when you beg, please, sir,
I let the ropes go one by one.
Then once we’ve had our fill
of silly fun, we sit like yogis
on the carpet, with a candle
in the bottle in between us.
From your side of the flame,
you see me as a sick bandito,
a mangy, lame, disgusting dog
whose eyes say put me down.
I see in you the gun and bullet.
Our little flame, it flickers on.
©James L. Ralston