Wet Dreams

Back then they called me Shaniquwa.
My shaky hands,
lying in the sands,
with midnight tainted toe-nails
and silver rings around my soul.
Anyone could smell the skunk
imported from the west,
the grass we enjoyed the best,
racing through my veins and
splashing my insides with glad.
I would tap my feet and writhe with lust,
watching waves wet,
forgetting how we met.
Licking your fingers one at a time,
like saccharine-frenzied lollypops.
See-through, cheese-cloth cover-ups,
breath dense in desire,
lips sultry with fire.
Lacey strokes of covet requests
upon my bronzed neck,
arched and strained away from heaving breasts.
Heedful in agile ache,
giver gets what I take.
Thirsty, attacks waver until you cry out,
vibrating universal permission
toward voyeuristic stars and my sanity.
Animal insticts reside.
Again, yet again I'll abide.

Jennifer
11/02/00