The curtains cut a swath of sun, drape it over us.
I wake wanting to touch you.
I stretch in an arc that presses us together,
Begins to stir you to wakefulness.
A sheet of light grazes your thigh,
Where my hand rested last night
As I laved you and loved you, tongue and breath.
My fingers feel mathematic and lazy this morning,
Drawing spirals golden and hyperbolic on your skin
As it rises and falls in sighs under my touch.
I want you here and aware, with me,
Blinking, scruffy, hard, urgent.
You smile in what’s left of your sleep.
Are you dreaming of my hands stroking,
Encouraging, enticing you to wake?
Do you feel them through the muting layers
Of half-aware, half-aroused, half-erect?
My hand closes around you. I relish the weight,
The heat, the solid evidence of your lust
As I flick my fingertips against you and you moan.
I bend to lick, craving the heat and velvet of you
The gravel and silk of your voice: More.
Proud, overspilling my gently-clenched fist,
Flushed and glistening, and god, I want to lick
Your skin, your urgency, your need, taste
The salt-warm flood of you, drink you dry.
Your hand finds my hair. I hold my breath,
Wait to be pulled down, to feel the press of you
On the silky skin at the back of my throat.
You shake your head, whisper: I want you
To come for me. Spread yourself. Offer it.
One puff of breath against you before I obey.
The hot flesh quivers and yearns toward me.
I fall back, hips rising in waves to meet you.
It would be easier now to fall into symbolism,
Hide this act in metaphor and cliché,
Lilies and mushrooms, swords and scabbards,
Bishops, seashells…hell, even trains in tunnels.
But you grab and I bite and neither of us says please.
What’s pressing against me is not a bishop or a missile,
And right now it wants into what is not a cave
Or a garden, or a moss-flanked spring.
I want it there. I want you. I want to be fucked, in all its
Anglo-Saxon growl and glory. I wrap my legs around your waist,
You tangle your fingers in my hair and pull,
Tilt my head back for a kiss and ride it down into me.
A shudder washes through me, and the only word
I have left is your name. I moan it, sing it, scream it,
Snarl it, whisper it over and over into your ear
So if you should get lost in this, as you do,
You won’t forget who you are, and can come home to me.
But that’s later, when the orgasm you said you wanted,
The one just for you, unfolds me body and soul before
The flood of life you carry in you and burn to give to me.
The second of the poems that sprang from my research into scientific language, thanks to John’s assertion that I never wrote directly about sex. (The others are “The Kinesiology of Lunch” and “Ars Physica“.)
The sequence in question is the Fibonacci Sequence.