You don’t have to be so quiet
out here, under God’s ever changing canvas
where only his less ******, less upright creations
can hear your desperate pleas for my flesh
to discover more depth.
I, the mighty pump-jack, drawing in the
natural resources of your womanhood–
You, the delicate Mother Earth begging
for asphyxiation.
“Scream for it,” I demand in a voice that both
startles and excites you.
“scream for it as the babe does the ****,
as the waves do for big moons, as the soul does
for purpose”
You obey, so I oblige; your warmth, with its grip
implores I do the same.
Eons pass in this embrace

In a moment of distraction I tear my eyes from you
and survey our surroundings:
to my left (your right, if you care for reference)
the trees, dancing to the wind’s choreography,
the cardinal, teaching its young their most valuable talent,
the squirrels depositing their winter’s insurance
in places they’re sure to forget.
To your other right, the lake:
fish making grand leaps above the surface
hoping to catch unsuspecting mosquitos,
***** gulls observing from high, diving below,
glad to see their meal present itself.
Beneath me: you.

Your hair, wild with sweat and agitation;
my fingers, discovering secrets in you
to which neither of us were previously privy;
those two supple mounds positioned
perfectly below your vertebrae–

I whisper “you are perfect”
you: “you don’t have to be so quiet”