This is another one that's made up.
I'd certainly hate to think that I'm like this,
but I guess some part of me must be.
It's called The Rival.
An orange falls open.
I slide my tongue across the knife.
In the corner of the dancing studio,
your ballet slippers gleam on the windowsill like pears.
Our lover stares at them, and dreams of ice
that sticks to his fingers.
He wants a cool glass of milk.
Instead, you give him a bowl filled with oranges.
The moon kisses my sheets white.
I swallow a slice of orange and smile.
My turn is next.
Tomorrow I will leave my riding gloves
on the windowsill and a bowl of fresh milk.
Beads jewel the saucer.
I'll watch him lick them off.
He is no fool.
When he is finished with me, he'll
plunge his hands in cold water and imagine
if I had a rival what weapons I'd use.
Let us call him our brother.
We'll share him like a piece of fruit.