Poetry

When your hips come down, when  
you enter me, I am thinking  
of iambic pentameter.  This is not  
to say I don’t love you, that I am not  
in the moment—rather, thrusting  
in five beats, one short, one long, one  
short, etc., amused to have you  
rhythming me.  I test you with a switch  
to trochaic tetrameter, startle you  
with an inexplicable spondee,  
leave off with an ellipsis . . .  
And when we flip, and my hips  
come down, that moment I look at you  
before straddling you?  That, my love,  
is a caesura.  
 
 
*This poem also appears on Snakeskin:   
http://homepages.nildram.co.uk/~simmers/175poetry.html