When she leaned into
the roses,
her face poised
at the edge of a deep red blossom,
he watched her mouth

(wanting to run his tongue
along the inside rim
of her damp lower lip)

which was slightly
parted, like the petals
before her,
as if tasting
their perfume.

(to linger there
savoring each
in delicious prequel)

and so perfect was
the flower’s essence,
it lingered
underneath her eyes
when she looked into his gaze

(of lovemaking.)

© martha lee phelps