A TOOTHSOME THREESOME
When he asked my permission I nodded
to spend the pay we’d wisely allotted
on an Amsterdam whore
who stood nude in a door -
With one glance we stood there besotted.
One shy glance and we were beguiled
with the softness of nipples and smiles -
we soon had her up-ended
doing more than intended
both self-conscious and giddy and wild.
My fantasies all but confessed,
I asked shyly if she would carress
the folds of my venus
as she sucked his penis
and we three rocked convulsing undressed.
As we rocked convulsing, aroused,
our tongues lashed his firm cock untrous’d
our tangled limbs danced
wet and entranced
with her body so lusciously loused.
Her body so lusciously breasted,
whore Mary stopped short and suggested,
“Should you wedded do this,
aren’t you very jealous?”
She furrowed her brow then redressed it:
She furrowed her brow then back-pedaled:
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t have settled,
for a husband who strays
to a husband who stays
his passions when women come meddle.”
“Yes, his passion for ladies is quelled
but he was convinced and compelled
by me to be dirty -
our marriage is sturdy!
Don’t let your head get too swelled.
“Don’t leave that ego untreated.”
“I’m sorry,” she later conceded.
Her brows unfurrowed
while counting her Euro,
convinced that no one was cheated.
Convinced she had no need to measure
the leash I allow my love’s leisure -
she gave us full reign,
’tis fun to live in sin!
Hailing Mary, all Marys, together.
INERTIA
i spin in a basket a bodysized cone
stomach thrown sideways sick
they pay to spin the basket I orbit
as they enter me from below
a small hole in the basket’s floor
aligned with my own skewered
the basket is mute face, soul-less
earth spins too though
we can’t feel it her great face
leaning to the side taking her axis
a metal rod nailing her to one point in space
i am a minor planet revolving,
chafing, swelling as beer
signs on the walls form neon tails,
comet-like soon tails stretch
room-long strips of reds
yellows through small slats in the wicker
i close my dizzy eyes, I’m pulling fabric
from an earlier basket in my mother’s house
i am nine the sewing machine purrs
its old purr sounds like a vibrator
if i touched it to myself now
it would feel good sewing me up
labia to labia a great eye closing
its lashes black threads shutting
sleeping pupils in our eyes
are open spaces tunnels that
d i l a t e
or contract depending on light
or arousal he can’t see my eyes my pupils
he’s long inside me i contract around him
dim his image to rods and cones
About the author:
My second chapbook The Wishing Bones was a finalist in the Pudding House Collections 2006 contest, and my poems have appeared in Room of One’s Own, Snow Monkey, Slipstream, and others, and have been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. I was creator and editor of Rock Salt Plum Review from 2001-2006.
