Trina Stolec






Your fingers blister
though you barely brush my neck
as you slide aside my hair,
nibble soft flesh.
I sigh,
press myself against fevered flesh.
Gentle bites down my neck
make me want to
taste the sweetness of your skin.
It burns my lips and hands
as you tighten your hold
        on me.
Your pale lips invade mine,
but you cannot infect me with your love.
I have grown immune.

Just A Joke

        Eyes contemplate
        the departing promenade
        from stalking distance...
It's just a joke,
a little amusement
to pass the time,
he says.
she wants to be
that's why she
on public sidewalks.

        At 12, I learned
        to hug schoolbooks
        to my chest;
        keep the assholes
        from copping a feel
        when I walked to class.

        Mother insisted
        the word "virgin"
        didn't belong on my lips,
        'cause the neighbors said
        it couldn't.

        Years later, it was
        black eyes
        when I looked at
        the person I spoke to;
        all women do is

        Three stitches in my lip
        for walking outside;
        I'd wanted to be looked at
        by people I didn't know
        where there.

He laughs
at his little joke.
I tell him we have
different ideas
of what's "funny."


His hands strike the strings
with stoic precision --
not dramatic flare
or the sensual play
of days past.
Passion replaced
with the inaccurate need
for preciseness;
meaning replaced
with mere competence.
Love lost, but not
Order and correctness
the age old replacement
when the hand gets slow,
heat fades.
Passion slips
into plastic precision