cunnilingus, erotic poetry, gold mine, lilith's daughter, more than spilled ink, poem, ramrod, shaman, sonnet, sopping mess
Our gods call this prayer. Men say sin. I’ll take
divine every time. Your fingers barely
brush my flesh as they pass by. We are ache
and stardust, star-child. In a galaxy
afraid of this sort of pleasure you press
down. Take me in, shaman. We speak in moans,
holy words that leave us a sopping mess.
This prayer. This space between your pubic bones.
Stretching you. The good pain when you use this
as the conduit to speak to our gods ––
Lean back while I finger your clit until
you can’t hold yourself up. Hard fuck. Hard kiss.
Hard faith, moon girl. Lilith’s daughter. Ramrods.
Gold mines. We cum as one. Our gods’ goodwill.