Sucking on the onyx, the molasses,
in you, while our mothers in the kitchen
chortle and your country-hedge of brat fuzz
tickles my nose. Wets my chin. If we’re kin
we’re a queer kin. There’s hissing in your hair.
We’re snakes and snake charmers. There is nothing
here to vex the tongue. Clit and cock, prayer
fat with blood. An itch. Your fingers moving,
pulling me in. Perhaps they’ll notice grass
stains, flushed cheeks, itches itched. You’re serpentine
just now, spine arched, hips buckled, monstrous
with need. Sublime in the morning sun. Crass
with cum, with becoming love’s lore. Your seam
split wide, your hedge soaked. Perhaps they’ll notice.