LANDSCAPE
laid out on your sheets. My eyes open and,
still-half blind with bright sensation,
look at your canvas. A sky of welts;
scattered crimson stars that sting
like the quick crack of your whip,
shooting down cloud-like limbs like a wish.
I feel more than see slashes, red and harsh,
knife across my back like lightning.
They rain down in lines,
their edges wet as they drip
cool and cleansing, caressing my thirsty skin.
A blue-black pool like a depthless lake
that curves full and sensuous
along the hill of my hip, spilling
between thighs and back, beneath buttocks,
in shapes like sheep and trees and handprints.
Little, red rivers run through, winding thin.
My finger likes to trace them, hot with bite
as skin and tip and nail touch and trail.
Islands—green, yellow, and brown—
dot my form, far and dry from the fathoms.
They are old with histories written in their lines.
Like seasons, they change, color and shape.
Every day different from the one before.
A passage of time patching my branded body.
You come back, your soft hand like a brush
as you touch the worth of your work.
A smile, satisfied, spreads across my face
as I mold myself like a malleable masterpiece
to my Mistress’s loving hand.
