Her Sexuality

Go ahead,  hush me up!

 Sew this self into a white sac

 with a bouquet of stones.  Let me sink

 underwater slowly     while fish     tug  the g-string

 of seaweed tearing loose     from the lake’s

 shadowy lingerie.  Here    instinct sprawls wild

 even when the winter sets in.     But you know

 all about the cold      how the sun stays

 distant    and light spins through ice.   No words

 all whirling motion.  And eyes freeze

 staring through anyone or anything

 that fosters heat.   You want

 that part of her dissolved

in a stream of consciousness,  clear

and receptive to the sun. The trade winds

crossing an equator     with love on their tongues.

Yet, the breed  of love I arouse

 and radiate,  as the feminine pulse

 of her,     you want to drown      deep and dulled

 in the mill pond    where other

secrets and unmentionables

 lie sunken.   But where    ( and be aware)

leech and chlorophyll     manage still

 to stimulate the breath, the lifeblood

of something vital.
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The beautiful and provocative image is by photographer,
David Brusha.