Chaste (and Not)

A book,

Binding tight,

Shelved among dust and mold,

Unread, might as well be unwritten.

Fiddlehead fern,

More rust than green.

Its curl a violin carved of oak,

No verdant expanse waiting to unfold.

Wooden joint

masterfully coupled,

Years of straining against each other,

Producing a mortar of pressured stability.

Not

the way I mean to bring my tongue to your groove.

Not

the way I intend to fiddle the fern of your longing.

Not

how I’ll crack your binding & read your pages ragged.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston