"Reclining on ranged couches. And We wed them
unto fair ones with wide, lovely eyes."
Heavenly is the slumber Amy's counterpart prolongs...
a vintage radiator aspirating
heat into the room, creating tropical conditions
prime for cultivating orchids;
hothouse-humid, Phoebe's boudoir
saps the strength of her companion, who lies limply
on the bed sheets like a steam-exhausted curl,
relaxed and oh, so-very-grateful for this unexpected
warmth that seems to lick the skin deliciously, soft
and fond as a puppy's tongue.
Both pillows, damp beneath their mistresses'
slightly flushed, perspiring cheeks, exude an
aftermath-quintessence from their liquor-leaching love,
expressions blissful and erotic, borderline
Theirs is a closeness mythological in its passionate
sorority, an exclusive sense of sweet completeness
known to few save twins, a Sapphic duo
set adrift by night, by daybreak spilled ashore, with none but sympathetic
sighs to sooth their temperaments.
Phoebe, sprawling in the midst of her refulgent
semi-consciousness, conjures—crease by mound by
pucker—toothsome kisses they indulged, a playful
nibble, luscious mouthing, hungry lapping,
thirsty slurp whereby they sought to drink each
other to the dregs; indeed beyond, exchanging
fluids with an ebb and flow as lunar, in its
sharing, as the subtle synchronicity of their
Amy, splayed, two fingers toying with her pubic
area, two more with her lover's (neither hand
entirely sure whose flesh is whose) sustains
their pleasure, not with pre-orgasmic urgency or
with post-orgasmic languor, simply stroking in
an idle fashion, redirecting nectar from the
groove where it has pooled to its nacreous
Thought turned into instinct, fragile feelings now
hold sway, with quilted patterns, blotchy
camouflage, tie-died imagery dappling senses so
sedate they appear to ripen like the fateful fruit in
... pilfered, spoiled; the doorbell sounds an
ill-timed SHRILL alarm!