The Donkey

My buff-armed love
makes me talk to his blue-eyed mother.
She interrupts with black breath.
Soft voice screams:
"You should listen to him."
Momentarily, she matters.

My kissy love rapes me
once every month.
Then he washes under warm water,
milky tear drops on his muscled cedar-hard chest
glide over his dark red nipple.
Immediately, I forgive him.

My smooth-skinned, tasty-sweat love is gone.
He hugs me for a proper good-bye.
My cranium shrinks.
Brain freezes.
Saliva drips.
I love him.

I am a donkey.