Egon’s Complaint

So here, she is. Limbs languid with release,
the sheen of our exertion still glowing on
her supple skin; her perfect knees
which minutes past clambered and clung

now soft-reposing, their splay contained
and covered by those sinuous arms,
that rumpled shift. So here, so chained
to me, my bed. That wisp which charms

each time it falls across her brow
tempts me to raise her ruffled fringe,
but her unfocused eyes arrest me now:
her body’s here. Her soul’s unhinged

itself from this my claim, my tiny space,
and gone abroad in search of grace.

Tia Azulay
1 April 2020