On Fucking - A Love Poem

Dressed, her clothes sliding silk, she
thinks of his hands skimming
her skin and how
he stands silent startling
all in black. She is naked

before his eyes, a quivering leaf
lacking strength, folding in
at the knees, her cunt turning
over, starting and restarting. She is
a trembling cunt, a throat, the nape
of a tender neck, a mind

where images collide. A seeking tongue
without words, legs apart, tensed,
veins coming tributaries on a raring
downward course, caught
in the net of his glance, her eyes
the wanderings of his soul.

A soul searches for a lifetime, gliding
over land, sinking into oceans silently
soaring, slow dancing over to rest
gently on a disarming prick. And if
he whispers in his low voice,

she will come in the rumblings
of his timbre, lighting upon
his unyielding soul. When a man enters
a woman, his cock leaves
a mark, a memory a measure. Sits
country swinging inside, rocking her

to the heavens and back that she
might sing the only song of “oh and honey
sweetie and yours.” When a man’s heart
finds its point in his prick with its mark
arranged, searing past barriers streaming
through a woman’s cunt flashing

with the speed of light clear through,
in that moment life is what
it is meant to be, has substance,
power, lacks certainty, appearing frail
trembles: a quivering leaf.

The woman arches and aches,
is his, can be taken surging
with swaying motion opening. Again
and again deeper, a midday sun’s burrowing,
heat streaming always summer, yet ever

a shady spot, a wraparound porch with
one of those gliding chair swings. A cunt
is a place to stay in, find repose, gather
music. And this morning with clothes
over, she is naked for him.


Copyright Janice Colman 2008