The noise from her alone
in the dark bed; in blind black
makes the blood weird.
She would never make those sounds
if I was with her. Here
she moans for no man's ear. Unrestrained.
The unculpable sound
of pure, unabridged femininity
on her tongue, and me,
instead of getting closer,
try silencing my own breath
under her exploited aloneness.
The craft of a cunt weighs out the heart
and the spine. The womb is heart;
the clitoris the spine; ovaries
are the brain and chest's reach
for oxygen. All lost in the psyche.
I stand between the intelligence of nerves
and the honesty of darkness, and her voice
somewhat muffled in the flesh
of her imagination, and mine.