There was a rush. Along the way, your shirt
remained, half-open at the front. Your breasts
not quite exposed, delicious flirt
of curve and flesh and aureole that tests
the strongest constitution. Sex is fraught,
frenetic coupling, water to lovers parched.
Your body’s slickness welcomed him, sweet thought
of fullness set your feet upon the march
to storm the mountain. If he hits that place
a few more times—oh, yes, right there indeed—
the peak is reached, and screamed, that splits your face
into that feral grin. But now his need
comes out, in hand, his squeezes cannot stop
that shirt, those curves, being rained in milky drops.
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.