i imagine

he must have registered a certain shock,
bemused, spent, gasping for strength
and clarity– not explanation,
for if anyone has seen the fruit of such sweet labor
surely it is a man himself, in the pale hours;

but even so, he must have been blindsided, and she–
before decorum, even, coarse and crying creature,
shuddering for each rank sweet breath over his shoulder
as if he propelled her lungs to their duty–

surely she believed herself to be dying,
writhing as she did upon all the white glows
the searing novelty, the quivering-thigh curiosities
(and somewhere in her pride of place at being first)–

though i will wager nothing so much shook her foundation
as her clawing hands, her tight legs,
her wordless mouth no less desperate
in its hunger, its precious rage, its succulent furor
its cry for more.

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