May I by Alison
© 2003

wash your cock
with my tongue, rinse your balls
in my mouth, press my lips
to your ass, suck you
until you're hard, pushing the tip
to the back of my open throat.
May I arch my head,
meet the glide of silky skin,
your shaft
moving to that awareness
we share how it is.
You fuck my cunt, my ass,
my tits. Tight nipples
pinched by wet fingers
finger fucking until your fist
is our heart
and all I see is the pulse
of your wrist,
how sticky it is
in the heat of winter, here
where we lay,
covered in the sweat of our sex.

Vulgar Poem #1 by Alison

To hear the sound of fingers dripping wet
he kneels between her legs
to watch instead of listening how her breath
catches the rise and fall of nearly soundless
noise. She cups her soft hard pubic mound,
the feel of bone, and he knows
she's rubbing faster and faster, harder,
harder the loneliness of his absent touch.
Harder, her body moans the company
of his name in that place they remember
as more than their nakedness
escaping her throat.

Vulgar Poem #3 by Alison

If waves of tongue swallow whispers
to tie you, belly down with silky scarves,
you'd be hard when I insert my thumb,
pushing it in with a ripple of fingers
until the depth is felt as that boy
who filled the dreams of your youth,
but this time you'll cry out loud for the arc
of your arms to break the tide when my
nipples are stiff on your back. You'd buck
and moan with my fist clenched
like a heart, beating to the rhythm of us.

Vulgar Poem #4 by Alison

He keeps Ambrosia in milk cartons
beside all those other things opening
between midnight and 3 in some fantasy
where the woman is lying on her belly,
half asleep when he walks to the fridge,
searching for the milk to splash on the small
of her back, the sheets are milky wet and
he's licking intricate textures of cool tender flesh
evocative for its creamy drenching when
the interior of his mouth heats and his face
is slippery with shivery streams tingling his lips
with her moans milking his open throat.

Clarity by Alison

When he bought me this necklace,
the beads, small stones strung together
luminous and clear, I thought
the shine picturesque, remarkable
for connecting the here with always
forever, and eternity hanging
from a wall. This was before
I tried wearing the stones wrapped
around my wrist like a memory
of a slave who survives happily on her back,
my legs taut around his shoulders.
He enters me, disappears.
He returns as my husband
understanding devotion
is the blackness of my eyes
when I climax. I squirt glistening ink.
I rub it on his skin, mix it
with his sweat, polish him shiny
like the beads. He says, 'this is for my wife'
as I tie him to our bed,
the stones
transparent against white sheets.

The Newness of Him by Alison

It is unspeakable, this inescapable fear
endlessly pacing the floor of my mouth.
I cannot swallow. I cannot shout,
let alone whisper for words are bruises
and my tongue, a hollow shaft,
smooth from tasting the newness of him.
It saturates my skin, gets under, gets in.
I touch his lips. Sshh. He kisses my finger,
a deliberate swirl of budded flesh
pulling on a bone. If only he would bite,
use those chiseled teeth, tear away this leash
of useless skin. There is nothing,
nothing underneath but a dread of giving in.
And I will, again and again, as I ask myself
will he or won't he expose the earth's
secret from its coma? The silence
drenching as hands are raised
from the promise of sleep.

You can email Alison at this email address: lucrezia11@hotmail.com