Judith (2)
The flesh resists my penetration but
there's one soft place beneath the heavy chin.
This then will be my entrance point: I surge.
We two are pressed so close your desperate hands
are scrambling on my skirt like drunken crabs
your breath still slow and stuporous and sweet
and rank with wine is snarling the sheets
around our legs. And when an eager louse
goes skittering across the hand that seized
you by your greasy goatwool hair I heave.
But swordweight sweat-slicked palms wet tent-trapped heat
I am gray owl wings in hunting flight.
Your head rolls heavy, dull-ripe-thumps like fruit
nudge-bumps my foot before I scoop you up.