she brings me these gifts: of joy; & of agony.
the place where she loves me is as close as it is
distant. I can sit there & hear horns, Voluntary,
over the hills.
the night is hot, she tells me. she turns in her bed.
on her skin, the sheets cling, made sultry by the rude
air. they circle her like a vine, & in that wrapping, &
that clinging, she feels me. burrowing, she says, into
her; an urgency adjures, & she cannot close her legs.
and I see this as a corrupt thing, serpentine, crawling
into her, not loving but raping. the rapture assaults her,
& her hips rise, gyrate, not to repel it, but to suck it in
more deeply. her fingers enter like vandals, & the friction
evicts her moans.
her body trembles & tenses, imploring release. she speaks
my name as she ascends to her secret star. her passion
becomes liquid & pours from her, cascading torment, until
the only wetness remaining are her tears…
she drags me into the whirlpool of her tremors, efflorescing
in my grasp, as if no man had ever held her before. no space
permeates the crushed microns between our bodies, nor the
silverest light dapples our adjoining: we are branded upon
this is my agony. and my joy…
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