Nape

You can't know
every girl's heart. Some want to reach
right in and grab the beat

while another might smile
as she blows a hole through you
before mounting you
on the wall with her other trophies.

Wild isn't soft.
My nape isn't downy, it's bristly,
matted with dirt, flea-bitten, mangy,
sleeping under boughs and stars
in the rain, eyes downcast, in the heat, panting,
nibbling at grass or wild roses
or tame roses if they aren't guarded by fences
because thorns or consuming beauty don't mean anything
when you're hungry.

And then it's over
not how you thought, is it,
Diana was the Huntress
and led her pack, arrow notched,
standing up to Apollo.

Don't mistake fair.
Don't turn your back
since we may as well face what's coming:
inside every smile is a slice