three

#1

The gods know
why they made us.
Pleaser
and pleased.
Server
and served.
Loser who cares.
Loser who doesn’t.
From my perspective
it’s all thigh and belly and musk,
silk mined for fire
hot enough
to send slag spattering
rib to rib,
spine
to pelvic ring
to groin.

A white-hot mess.

Your salty nectar.

My dizzy pleasure
involves pleasing,
a bonus for you
who can just lay back
and watch me do
the dirty work.

#2
The Hindus carved their goddesses
into the shape of you.
Elongated torso
with belly arched.
Ankles flexed, toes pointing,
all roads leading to that sweet cathedral,
sacrarium of thigh and belly and buttock,
lotus
and magnolia.

In these minutes we are beatified, you and I.

Tongue to cunt.
Lip to clit.
Hungry flesh to flesh.

Nerves singing like seraphim,
holy choirs
celebrating the glorious synchronization
of mouth
and pussy.

#3
On these sheets
is my truth of you;
woman on top,
man the starry eyed receptacle,
his senses
smothered
in salted honey,
blood hum
of muscled thighs,
a soft vise clenched.

You perch on my face
with feathers fanned,
grinding slow circles,
gathering sticks while the fire roars.