More

I disengage and dismount
from your body, your thighs-
soft and pliant
under my desiring thrust.

I drift to the other corner
of the bed, bated breath
waiting for your leg
to fall over my leg.

Seize this moment, seize this night,
and ruffle it enough
till words emerge
from the vortex

trees shaken loose of
birds and leaves,
confetti sparkling all around
us, and covering our feet.

This is what poems are made of.
This is what poems are for.

The agitation- momentary, transient,
made extraordinary,
like the seconds before orgasm
followed by the release.

Then the waves reach the shore.
There will always be more.

His

He digs for ore in my garden.
I sprout newer blossoms for
his mantelpiece made from
ivory and honey,
stolen from my other natural cousins.
His basket he fills with my babies-
Oriental cows milked for monies-
his sons will never see.

I refuse to plead to indifferent gods,
they control the sky, the stars,
except the elusive man
who steals, who kills, who drills
his likeness with his prick.
I grow sick, disease and death
surround me, my limbs too weak
to resist his radiation.

Maybe I will grow wings
only in my dreams now
I sing, paeans to all that was
sacred and feminine.

October 2015.