I often wonder how other women have loved you.
How their courageous hands covered the smoothed curves of
your caramel skin and their mouths drank you up like so much fine wine
Sought to keep inside them the concentration of summerlight
inside your rich teak wood skin
Did the heat I feel when I stand next to you threaten to
burn them to a cinder?
Did the whirls of your long fingers scatter the ash of their
orgasm incinerated selves to the four winds?
And stride unabashed into the world
Where you found me?
Whilst I lie here amid the imagination singed sheets
illustrating my fevered dreams
Is that midnight voice talking some young one out of her
designer dress?
Whilst she keeps her spike heels on, because I know how you
like
Those shoes that I will never walk in preoccupy your mind.
How the fine purpose wrought machinery of your decadent
mouth
Swallows the sounds of their pleasure
Turns their innocent whites
Into longings for lace
So swollen with the giving and taking
That you inadvertently Spill sex
Into my attempt at normal conversations
I am preoccupied with how you must sound when you
Frenzied word whisper
Provocation, incineration and culmination
Against their domesticity
I think all this
Whilst I look at the catalogue of your beauties
Are you picturing the iron straight tresses of last night’s desire?
Remembering these women,
The women who loved you
Under your finger tips
Last night
But I am not
Not these women
I am she
Wild woman
Free
And despite
All before me
Only I
Dare
Set
Your beast
Free . . .
