Someone recently called me an all-around good girl. So here's my little poem about sex . . . .
Like Breathing
The going down inflated her to the hopeful bursting
with the unison of their animated transaction
the throats belched out shooting stars like
winning lottery tickets raining from the ceiling
there was a secret bouncing from between sticky surfaces
wallowing in silent places, reassembling them
as milkweed for the caterpillar or oxygen after a severed cord
there was nothing left to do but breathe
1 comment:
Whew!
I think it's getting hot in here ... And I stand corrected (or at least redefined) The good girl Diane I referenced in this post clearly has an alter ego!
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