Love
(for ALL.)
You hint at out perennial question,
“would you rather be the ocean or the stars,”
when you lift your shirt to just above
your nipples. You eyes suggest yellow reeds,
which only drip their answer when I drink
your mouth and they close.
I’m the one to pull your breasts out,
kneading them already with my thumbs coming down
from the wide, still, tables below your neck,
and counterpressure in my other fingers hold
their basins. The left is fuller but the right
has goosebumps. So do I as you unbutton me,
taking out my penis, having me against your thighs.
Questions rise and fall, they blossom
or they variously fold, emboldening our dark
sexes. You ask me if I want the new way,
although it isn’t new, and I assent
as if we could be shamed
or needed sanction from the silty spring we made
called love, bending us like saplings
in the flooded banks of a brook
so that my hands can feel your diving body,
your torso like a hand-carved boat
while I stand at your lips, heart-beating.