This is a poem I wrote six years ago from a collection I am forever editing. I put "her skin" in brackets - thought the line was too long,, put in "her skin" because I worried the reader wouldn't know she was remembering his hands passing over her skin, he had such huge hands . . .
She remembers his hands traversing
(her skin) a colossal wave crossing continents and how
he stood beside her silent startling
all in black. Naked before his eyes, she is
a quivering leaf lacking strength, folding
in at the knees, cunt turning
over starting and restarting, a throat,
the nape of a tender neck, a mind where
images collide, a seeking tongue
without words, legs apart, tensed,
veins like waterfalls on a raring
downward course, caught
in the net of his glance, her eyes
the wanderings of his soul.
A soul searches for a lifetime, gliding
over land, sinking into oceans silently soaring,
slow dancing over to rest
gently on a disarming prick, and if
he whispers in his low voice, she will
come in the rumblings of his timbre—
when a man enters a woman, his cock
leaves a mark, a memory a measure, sits
country swinging inside, rocking
her to the heavens and back that
she might sing the only song of oh and
honey sweetie and yours. But when
a man’s heart finds its point in his prick,
dislodging barriers, in that moment
life is what it is meant to be, has substance,
power, lacks certainty, and appearing frail
trembles—the leaf sways and dips, landing
lingers with curved edges under
the midday sun’s perennial burrowing,
heat streaming always summer, yet ever
a shady spot, a wraparound porch with
one of those gliding chair swings. A cunt
is a place to stay in, find repose, gather
music, and this morning, with clothes
sliding over, she is naked for him.
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