cunnilingus, erotic poetry, gnawing hunger, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the dead are never satisfied, unholy sex, winding shroud
Worms of the flesh. Dreams of rapture. “The dead
do not sleep … at first,” you said, on the night
that you followed me home. From gray sickbed
to gray earth. No salvation. No white light.
No choir singing praise. Just hunger striding
through my doorway, greedy for pillow talk.
“Fuck flesh,” you called yourself, with a gnawing
look. Yes, that look, “Skewer me on your cock.
Eat me. Drink me. Love me. Make much of me.”
The dead are cold; yet you still sweated, hips
twerking, thundering; deluge from a storm cloud.
“Regrets? Since I thought lust was unholy,
never knowing this.” My tongue: on your lips,
between your thighs, under your winding shroud.