Listen for the glisten of mud. By swan’s
soot. By romp’s root. After a sound spanking
against a burned-out bole in the Fox-Fauns
delta I take the rope’s slack end, binding
your wrists, lead you further into the muck.
Wearing only waders in these tidelands
is not much fun. Of course biting bugs suck.
So too do the church folk across the sands.
But we’re safe in the Goddess’ domain.
At each slap an intake of breath. Wet heat
rises between your legs. There is no shame
when so close to the sea. To be constrained.
To be punished. You love it — and you bleat
joy with each sting. By cum’s blot. By Her name.