..."F.M.!"...

Disclaimer:

The following poem is not about sex. 

The following poem is not about sex. 

The following sex is not about poetry. 

 

In the distance, he could see her,

but had truly sensed her presence

long before this moment.

 

Moving forward,

he could make out the smooth silkiness

of her supple skin 

as she lay there naked

beneath the clinging sheets.

Open expanses of her creamy fluid form

flowed in and out of the satin cloth

in a manner which could not help 

   but entice him.

He had a thing about skin: 

   he lived for it.

 

She was aware of him and his desires,

and yet, strangely,

did not know him.

Such was his life;

to be known and yet unknown.

 

He paused against the wall and waited.

The moment was not right and 

an invitation, no matter how slight,

seemed appropriate.

Upon the bed he could feel her heat.

Far more heat than she could contain,

and with a lifting of her arm

and kick of the leg,

the remaining sheet fell away,

there to form a reef

around the rising swells of her body.

 

Advancing, he was upon her, yet,

even now, she seemed not to notice.

How was it possible for him or anyone

to be seen as so insignificant?

Rather, was this a positive attribute-

to be seen without threat?

 

Suddenly, he was within her;

piercing and easing his full length

into her liquid softness.

This she felt.

This she acknowledged with

and an almost imperceptible arching of back,

and yet, beyond this, no more.

His shaft was immobile within her.

An almost mutual indifference. 

Yes, this… although he could feel

every minute movement;

could feel her life's essence 

move around and within him.

For this one brief moment,

   they were joined.

And yet she flowed into him

more than he into her.

 

Was this the nature of their relationship?

Was he the taker    and she the giver?

How was it that she 

could be impaled in such a way

and see it as no consequence?

Was her indifference her weapon?

 

Had he now the choice to be taker

   or simply be noticed,

he would surely choose the latter.

 

With a sudden violent motion,

she pivots about upon the bed,

her hand hurtling towards him.

And there her rigid palm makes contact,

his taunt body collapses, and 

explodes in a bloody smear 

across her thigh.

 

Grasping the sheets again,

she pulls them up an over her breasts.

And there with them high to her neck,

she mutters his final dismissal.

 

"Fucking mosquito!"

                                                          

Ó94 Jack David Hubbell