The red shag carpet came alive
after we made love,
writhing naked on the floor,
after its coarse fibers chafed our flesh.
Maybe friction woke the beast.
A wet tickle at my neck
was the first sign
this one-night stand had soured —
then a rolling wave beneath my back.
You shouted and scrambled up the couch
as the carpet rose.
Not too chivalrous, I remember,
kicking me in your haste.
Our abandoned clothes went first —
a thousand rough tongues scoured
your fake bowling shirt,
popping buttons with a sickly tear,
until blue polyester fell away.
My silk panties licked to shreds
and you panicked
dumping good Scotch on the carpet
which did nothing
but make me mad and the tendrils swoon.
By then the tongues had reached our cushions
seeking, straining, wriggling.
I admit it wasn’t nice,
but I was in better shape.
So I pushed you at the floor
and used your hairy body
as a stepping stone.
the sound I heard as the carpet snapped your bones
before I shut the door.
Think I’ll let the landlord handle this one.
|Folly Blaine is currently attending the 2014 Clarion West Writers Workshop in Seattle, WA. Her short fiction has been published in the anthologies Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations and Fresh Blood, Old Bones. See more at www.follyblaine.com.|