‘My Mistress’

Photo Caroline Marsh

My mistress’s hair is like autumnal trees,

coarse on my frail skin.

Gleaming on my face, her cheeks—the colour of dawn.

Her luminous dove-white body intertwining with mine,

like leaves on a windy day

whirling from one direction to the other.

Her nipples—dark and swollen

staring like berries                 

waiting to be tasted, eaten.

She looks at me with stormy grey,


waiting for me to finish

as I taste the plain, raw oysters

of her vagina.

This article originally appeared in The Body Issue, published February 1, 2022.