Kristin Garth

A Ghost He Made By Accident 

She succumbs inside a claw foot tub.  The 
wrong lips below, two more above splayed 
and squeezed about a cock.  How limberly 
her torso rocks, thighs around his navel, 
submerged face amidst the bubbles, slosh 
of waves churning as he misbehaves
inside a body with a mind brainwashed.
Death was never discussed as cost.  Slave 
he allots such little breaths.  Elevates 
the spine, the dripping breasts, those second lips 
bequeathed a gasp before bath water makes
its own death mask of a skull that is eclipsed 
by the shuddering of maneuvered hips
of a ghost he made by accident. 

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