To...

Me lying in his bed, his arms around me,
His hands caressing the curve of my waist, first slowly
Then with an urgency to which my body responds.

The pile of clothes on the floor,
The moving up by bases
Derogatory both to the act of love and to the game.

So, we stop at second and I ask him if he thinks I am fast.
He replies that he’s ready to wait, we do whatever, whenever I decide.
Nestling warm in the cliché of his own decency

I do the mating dance of being hesitant,
he on his part, pretends to understand.
But all I can think is-
sooner murder a child in the cradle , than nurse unacted desires.

I think I am quoting Blake to him, he looks at me askance.
A touch, a shrug, can say much more, than these words ever can.

Tomorrow I’ll get a sepia toned copy of Garden of Love
And hang it on his wall.
Maybe he will understand the joy of my need for him,
and leave it at that.