It Feels Like, But Isn't

It Feels Like, But Isn’t  by Khari D. Hawke A pull, a tug around  swollen neck. Mule-tussle  Kicking up dust. Heave  Ho, ho. Stubborn strands  Of braided silk, twine,  Iron warming wet with  Sweat rubying muscle.  Can you breathe welting  Like that? Hickies from  Fingers squeezing where  The rope don’t reach, where  Chains don’t clink  Against bone? Clavicle kissed  With a fist or a shout indignant  That you should hear it cry  Out at your bursting. Whipping?  Whipped? Metal bit clasped round  Cheeks and chin. Buttocks  Clutched with two hands, slashed  Raw. Mercy is how he lets you  Breathe in between floggings.  How he allows sweat to dribble  Into the shadow of your masked  Face, quenching. Wince not at this  For this is glory, this is a white dress  With a hissing trail long  As life. This is wedding band caught  In a stray hand of light touching  Where welts have shaken from  Their cocoons of skin.  It doesn’t not hurt but it does not  Hurt you for this is not  Slavery this ain’t nothing  But love