Her Mother’s Daughter – by Rob Evans

 

She was the Daughter of the House of Masks and yet
when the golden thread trembled so did she, unsure
of what might strut from the dark mouth out to the sun.

Then he came, bringing the acrid musk of something
more than sweat and victory and his eyes were as hot
as those ox-blood stains on his ox-hide shield.

All day they celebrated. He ate the figs and olives,
broke the bread and drank the wine of a grateful king
but his eyes stayed on her and they never cooled.

That night in her chamber, she shook again, in time
with the rutting thrust of him, with each guttural grunt
as his thick tongue licked at the salt on her skin.

 

 

 

Rob Evans is an aerospace Engineer who lives near London but who works all over the world.  When not flying or doing sums to prove that he can, he spends his time writing poetry and sometimes reading it to hushed and not-so-hushed audiences.  He is a one-time UK All-Comers Poetry Slam Champion but has since clawed his way back to some kind of respectability.

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