Purple [Poem] by Robert Beveridge


Purple panties peek
from beneath your grey
nightshirt, cuddle
the close-trimmed
bulge of mons, hint
at the shape of lips

what desire, what glory
to French-kiss you
peel them off
and slide into you
with one easy stroke
wrap your hard calves
around my hips
and stand, your back
against the wall
and thrust into you
slow, deep, and forceful
until I empty myself
into you, cry ecstasy
against your lips,

collapse onto the couch
and repay you
with a different French-kiss
until you, too, are rocked
with ecstatic spasms.

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Riverrun, and Third Wednesday, among others.

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