The first time I slipped a finger inside
you was on a cross-country bus trip. You
sung “Me and Bobby McGee” to me, cried
when you climaxed. None of the sleepers who
sat all around us saw you lick your own
pleasure off my fingers. The second time
you were a new mother. We were alone,
you had just fed your baby. Your sublime
nipples called for sloppy seconds. Your milk
tasted sweet, warm, leaving a rapture smear
across my lips. As I sucked sucked greedy,
as I found your spot, melting like wet silk,
as you said, “suck hard, put your mouth right here,
put your tongue in me, put yourself in me …”