Wordless

We talk of love so much; fucks we avoid
because it's hard to find the words that speak
of how she fingers me on an antique
chaise longue, of how she grows somewhat annoyed

when I cannot quite come until she licks
the scar under my breast. Her finger still
inside me, twisting, turning; as a mill
grinds pepper at your table. My cunt kicks;

I squeal a little. Claw her back. She bites
hard on my collarbone. The stiff brocade
upholstery rashburning thighs. We raid
Petrarch or Yeats to say how we lie nights

awake in yearning, well-fucked forge our own
articulation of a squeal or moan.