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Elaine the Fair Accuses Lancelot

You feed me on crumbs
then forget the crumbs;
you are the bad master
of dogs left kenneled, waterless.
Your mind forgets
dates and places,
the sweet things dripped
like honey from your tongue,
but well remembers
your erotic fiefdom,
a Domesday tally of devastated
women, this one's breasts,
that one's desire for oranges,
another panting for the flat of your hand.
You will remember my lips
that lushly kissed you back to life,
or my long legs raised
above your silvered head,
but forget the shimmering
glass of my devotion,
reflecting what wasn't there.
Additional Information:
Copyright 2007 by Valerie Nieman and used here with her permission; originally published by The Camelot Project.