Sonnet 69

I still remember how patiently you taught
me, convinced me to love, to trust, to plumb
the depths of my first feeling, nerves taut,
breath captured then released at the plum
of your flesh in my mouth, the surprise graphed
on your face, the gasps as my tongue feted
that junction where we became one. At the graft
of lip and bone, a seed spilled that would grow fetid --
the burn and tumble, the grasp and yearn, the sear
would grow cold and limp; the mechanics, coarse.
With eyes rolled back, limbs contorted, blind seer,
you already knew, did not reveal the course:
each lick and slip of hip that did elicit
groan from you, you would one day find illicit.

Penelope Davis Greenwell

If you've any comments on this poem, Penelope Davis Greenwell would be pleased to hear from you.

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