Like the Blowing of Birds' Eggs
I crack the shell
on the bedstead and open it
over your stomach. It runs
to your navel and settles there
like the stone of a sharon fruit.
You ask me to gather it up
and pour it over your breast
without breaking the membrane.
It swims in my palm, drools
from the gaps in my fingers, fragrant,
spotted with blood.
It slips down your chest,
moves on your skin like a woman
hurrying in her yellow dress, the long
transparent train dragging behind.
It slides down your belly and into your
pubic hair where you burst
the yolk with a tap of your finger.
It covers your cunt in a shock
of gold. You tell me to eat,
to feel the sticky glair on my tongue.
I lick the folds of your sex, the coarse
damp hairs, the slopes of your arse
until you're clean, and tense as a clock spring.
I touch your spot and something inside you
explodes like the blowing of birds' eggs.
Ménage à Trois
Insatiable these mornings, full
of a drunk excitement, your eyes
have the glazed look of a woman
who hasn't slept all night; you wake me
with mouth open kisses, the smell
of a different room in your clothes.
You take off your dress and show me
the stains on your skin
like the trails of exotic gastropods;
a body paint of semen
which I rehydrate with my tongue.
I trace the splash across your stomach
and over your breast, a thick dried
river of it, flooding again; your nipple
rough with a smear of salt.
That was one hell of a shot.
I suck on you greedily and slide
my tongue where his own tongue
must have slid long into the night,
and when all trace of him is gone,
except the smell in your hair
we make our own maps on each other's skins
and we fuck like we never do
without this heat inside you, without
this ghost of a man drifting between us
like a lover sharing our bed.
Waste not, want not you say as you
wring the last drops, the way
you'd get the dregs of the Burgundy
out of a wine box. You swallow the lot
like an epicure, a woman who hasn't drunk
for weeks. I see the tongue curl
in your mouth, your lips sticky and opalescent
as it runs down your throat.
An elixir, that's what you call it,
your multi-mineral and vitamin supplement:
amino acids, glucose, fructose, vitamin B12
(essential for vegetarians), vitamin C,
magnesium, calcium, potassium,
and one third of the recommended
daily dose of zinc. You wipe your chin
with a finger, and put the tip to your tongue.
The taste is acquired; like whisky,
and anchovies, you develop a passion.
It's an aphrodisiac more efficacious
than rhino horn, or Spanish Fly,
it's delicious, you say. as you grab my hair,
and push your salty tongue in my mouth.