Lain in sinking rest
beneath rain on a wrinkled roof
I was told,
the teeth in Hell are clean.
A novice wife, whose home was lost
to blinking moth
and other winged things,
of failing vein.
In her scarf I wrapped relish and flesh
wiping her seared spot, of passion and mirth
His tongue incapable of licking clean,
left inside her spleen.
Written for Three Word Wednesday.