La Petite Mort

It is wrong
What we do

I think it

Before
After

During
But only in the fleeting moment
Of stillness in the mind
As the sound of my own breath
Creeps back into awareness
 
Colors eat at the sated void in my mind
Patches of memory appear

Blue backpack riding up Michael's back as he runs
For the bus

The sound of plates and cups milling about
On hard wood

Family dinner

But no image so vivid as that of the leg poised near

A monolith
Sharp-angled alabaster arch
The Rest of Her above this cleft of knee
Is all there is

Dual flush
As Desire-Guilt fuse into a single
Dizzying knot deep in my womanhood

She feels the same
I know
By her gently sad eyes  

We pour ourselves back into one another
Curled pink tongues sink into open mouths
Damp breasts press forward
Blindly wanton need

Last OneI whisper
And roll her atop
And clamp her in my thighs

And lose count of how many times
Our knots clench
Aching sweetness
             

*****

It is wrong
What we do

The man I married
Does not know

Cannot know –It was good Honey really–
What I am like
With her

A beast
With urges he has never witnessed
Nor dare dreamed

Folds and nubs swelling
Impossibly with want
My own biology a thrilling stranger to me

*****

Some nights I imagine the trial
Neither forgiveness nor goodbyes
After sentencing

They force us  
This is what you wanted
Into the box only a foot longer, taller, wider
Than we are

*****

I think of us discovered at an archaeological dig
No sisters, these
Our shame divulged by the tattling plate:
Unfaithful
The whole world hears the story

A surreptitious few pocket it
For fuller consideration
Later in bed
They wonder with secret lust

             What we did to earn this

             What must we have done to each other in those final moments  

*****

The top is nailed shut
We rumble down, shuddering, into the final silence

In the end
We have no choice
But to cleave together