sublime torture…
the bluntest of instruments.
Think of apricot marmalade,
with a touch of crimson cayenne,
spread slowly about a nipple
and over the folds of an areola.
Think of the sun making it melt
and wafting its scent to the bees.
Think of the sweat that bleeds salt
and distills the pepper to pucker.
A bee hovers and buzzes
seeking purchase among swirling fingers.
Everything gets hotter and wetter
and the buzzing gets louder
and what was sublime becomes tempest
as fingers knead and pull
to rise above the swells of salt;
and the buzzing gets louder
as everything and everyone begins to nibble
and slurp, nipping at times fevered,
wanting to swallow or be swallowed.
The buzzing subsides as all are sated
but fingers never rest in fact or mind
and they push, shove, pull, scrape, press,
above all press and pulse.
There is not wind, just the earth gasping,
silently because it is not alone,
but wanting to scream the way it has
when truly not alone.
She has a date
and I tremble for the world.
