art of her flesh

I am the ragged poet
the scarecrow of words
my verses are unwashed,
 dirty and rank

but she loved them

she was the hours in curves
making art of her flesh
both sinuous and sweet
and she reminded me of untouched days
the remnants of something delicate
   an undiscovered jealousy
   or a child's sudden temper

I
the worm to her apple, the snake to her eve
brutally faithful to her failings
trusted companion to her worser half

I
dreamt her with outstretched arms
and the callous grace of the unforgiving liar

she was mine.
 my darling soliloquy
 my most unfaithful servant

and now she is yours, as well