Hives

Not ones with wasps — although that hectic buzz
beneath the skin suggests there just might be
some angry bees in there, trapped in your blood's
hot attic, swarming just under your eaves —
but carnal ones that leave you breathless
with itch that's penance for sin,
and hoist the red flags of fleshly excess
and write your vice on your skin —

those vats where greed's green honey ferments
liqueur of exquisite need,
the undeniable urge that repents,
rewards, and castigates — the searing sweet
ecstatic scratch of pleasurable pain
that satisfies, then cries for more of the same.

Copyright © 2007 Debra Wierenga All rights reserved
from Diner
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission