My Bed

― Genereux Philip

Again you’re ready, all dress’d
a log, hollow chrome, feather fill’d
at this hour wrapp’d in pink, calm eludes you
sleep will not take you.

Soon your joints and springs will be complainin’
listen, hear whisperings at the ceilin’
as flat on your mattress my beau dwell
oh, if you could, things seen n’ heard in this room tell!

Would you recount this ballet?
How gay hands grope ev’ry inch of my clay
tracin’ contours, cuppin’ first one then the other
my front n’ rare hills – one after another.

And of how roamin’ south for that prize
surround’d by untrimm’d bush supplies
that sprout upon my bony ridge but held captive
by lacy slip, his thrusts became active.

Would you disclose how on all fours
in imitation of two beasts mating outdoors
the granite mass of his spear, hard in bout
stormed up my shore, drillin’ in and out,

leavin’ me hungry n’ spent. As his jerks die
and our screams echo on like battle cries.
And your frame forever built for the floor
becomes an arena to implore n’ explore.

And I in wonder fuss
will you though silent snitch on us?
Tell tales to my hubby away in Chad
that I’ve become Cheats’ willful child.

Copyright © 2019. SpilledWoords. All rights reserved.

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