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"Rosedust" by Larry Winfield
Category:
Poetry
Pages: 28
Short stories "Rosedust" and "Johnson Grass"; a dozen poems.
Excerpt
From "Rosedust":
She strolls in a garden at sunset, a walking, vibrating shadow. Her long robe made no sound,
did not catch on the rose thorns she passed. Her bare feet rested on unbent blades of grass as
she stopped before a perfect blossom, one of many on a waist- high bush. Her robe opened as she
bent closer to it, almost brushing her nipples against the petals. Cupping the bloom in her
hands, she whispered its name, watched as the entire plant shriveled, withered, sighed its
death, root and all flowing up from the soil that closed up smooth and undisturbed at her feet.
All but the flower she held, now impossibly beautiful. She touched it to her lips and it sighed
into reddish dust, clinging lightly to her fingers, face and neck as she inhaled. she walked to
a far corner of the garden, stepping through a shadow on an ivy-covered brick wall.
She returned to his dreams, to the room she made, where a baby laughed and played amid huge
golden pillows, gurgling and squealing in delight as she entered. She walked softly, floating
over the cushions, settling beside him. She lightly rubbed the dust from her fingers over his
face, breathing little clouds around him, his reddish-brown now redder still. She removed the
robe and suckled him, smiling as stubby fingers and wet cheeks smeared red over her dark
chocolate nipple.
Smiles became cooing, teeth replaced gums, stubby fingers lengthened, he warmed to her
caresses. Cooing erupted into moans, suckling spilled over into tonguing, lips playing, from
one nipple to the other, a soft beard smearing red between them. Lips finding her neck, then
her mouth, greedy tongues sliding together. The blackness drained from two hairs at her temple.
Laugh lines and crows' feet creased into her face. She slid a moist red hand between them,
grasped him gently, guided him inside.
She shuddered, gasped, tightened and released until they found a slow, easy rhythm. The lines
in her face smoothed, disappeared; the hairs stayed white, joining the already scattered
salting at both temples. Inside the room, now full of shallow breathing and muffled squeals,
they danced the song of life; outside, in his dreams, the man danced with death alone. An arrow
piercing a buffalo soldier's neck. An infidel run through by a Crusader's broadsword. A
tailgunner riddled with bullets, then blasted out of his B-17. A child playing, caught in the second sunrise over Hiroshima. Death after death roared through, quick and slow, peaceful and
hideous, crashing. Inside the room each violent death made her spasm, clutching him ever
tighter. The last annihilation consumed them both, waves of orgasms pounding, roaring.
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