After school I fingered you senseless. Filled
your mouth with more than quarrels over craft.
Left you soppy and brooding with my spilled
seed smeared across your lips. That word, I laughed
at what you called me: “kakhard.” It means witch.
Perhaps. I have blasphemed in the churchyard
of your arse sure enough. Made your clit twitch
with just my stare. Perhaps I am, “kakhard,”
and these dark Armenian arts the spell
that has ensnared you each time the school bell
rings, each time you knock on my door. Each time
kissing turns astonishing and sublime
while I lift the hem of your pleated skirt —
More. Touch me more. Make me hurt. Make me squirt.
In Armenian, “կախարդ,” is the word for witch.