On the edge of my bed he leans in

cups one breast with one hand

with the other slices a smile

he peels me

like a Clementina


I am pith upon his skinny wrist

I am unction on his bone

with the solicitous tip of his finger

he finds the quickened pip

I am membrane; a segment of quartered flesh


he lies atop my covered form

presses hard against my hip

this swinging thurible of bone

consecrates the cradling buds

in my belly big with prayers


he reaches down to

thighs that open readily

to find some comfort there,

I take him as he comes to me

my flesh my blood my fear


Oh God! I cry, your will be done

but your kingdom isn’t here.



  1. Erotica with a twist? A conflicting dream of longing and lust in which there is no victor? Or contemporaneous experience? The reader is left with much to ponder. Loving your poetry Catherine and looking forward to more – C & R


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