She-Wolf

You were twice my age. I was
Clay in your hands. But those hands,
Those hands that teased, provoked, those

Lips that whispered, the small tongue
Licking, tracing. The white teeth
That bit, nibbled, until there

Was no stopping, nothing but
The madness of need and the
Blindness of need and I was

Fifteen but strong and tore that
Chartreuse angora sweater
Off of you when you were slow,

Teasingly slow, mockingly,
Maddeningly slow to take it
Off and pulled down the amply

Filled lace bra you wore beneath,
The skirt and the stockings and
The seeming hundreds of things

You all wore then and gazed in
Trembling wonder at a bared
Woman for the first time and

Paused, at a loss, until those
Oh-so-practiced, clever hands
Guided me into you and I

Had you for the first time up
Against the avocado
Refrigerator door, and

The second time in your bed
On top of you, thrusting in
To you, thrusting hopelessly

With absolute mindlessness,
Nothing more than a device
For child-making with no thoughts.

Then the third time with you on
Hands and knees on the floor like
A dog, from behind. Until

We were both raw and sated,
Exhausted, and that woken
Beast-friend inside crawled back to

Its den until summoned once
Again, or until it can
Escape, that wolf-companion,

Predator that still haunts my
Dreams and loins, that cannot be
Placated but must be let

Free to hunt, kill, feed; to court
And mate among the she-wolves
Under the light of the Moon.