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.