Ode to Bruises from a Caning

Autumn makes its way across my ass
but in reverse, as crimson
dims to yellow, black, and green.
Gone the happy glow from painful blows
and calculated stripes from careful aim.
Still, with smiles and pride, I eye
your artwork made from flesh,
a tribute to the sadist's heavy hand,
and see in each emerging hue
a neon sign of how I serve
with metaphor and rhymes and squirms and pain.

(posted here with permission)