The Photographer [Poem] by Robert Beveridge

Angel wings by Jean-Christophe Destailleur

We have hit the wall,
both of us eager
to document so many
sexy things about you
the way jade earrings
dangle against your throat
the erection of a nipple
just brushed by a fingertip
the way dawn light illumines
the curve of belly and hip
and you sleep, naked
and satisfied, exhausted
after orgasm
and of course we cannot
take snapshots in the act
so we talked about our
photographer friends
who we would consider
close enough to see us
naked balanced
with talent. The choice
was clear: her facility
with monochrome,
ability to capture light
and motion, spill
of black hair that covers
sculpted neck
lips rough from weather, yet
deep with mystery, supple
body that belies children.

The first few snaps went
as expected. You never looked
to anyone’s eyes but mine
more beautiful than in front
of that lens. We ranged
around town, grabbed light,
talked shots, then back
to our apartment for the main
course. No sound but the click
of shutter. Clothes discarded
piece by piece and how the lens
finds the most delicious curve
the photographer finds
the perfect light. I cannot
resist the urge to touch you.
Fingers on the freckle spray
across your shoulder, tongue
glides up a buttock. Her voice
hoarse as she asks us to continue.
My clothes join yours, fingers,
lips, tongues, nipples, all fair
game from the camera,
the photographer, breath
heavy, who watches, documents
as we sink into one another
and the click of the camera
continues, composition, light,
form, angle, she accounts for even
if it is lost to us.

She reaches
to touch your hip, adjust you
for a better angle, but you move.
Her fingers stroke your close-
cropped mons. A gasp, a stare
into smoky eyes pregnant
with desire. A hand extended.
Whose does not matter. You taste
those lips, that sculpted neck.

Another set of clothes joins ours
on the floor. Lips slip, tongues
skip, fingers dance on belly
familiar waltz on new parquet.
The heady taste of strange sweat
musk and birch and sweet
excitement, the ignorance
of whose mouth is on my nipple
whose slickness dots my fingers
keeps my eyes shut, ears focused
on bel canto cries now becomes
a chorus. I feel myself engulfed
in delicious moistness, know your
legs incapable of that position.
I look, and yes, she has impaled
herself, had the presence of mind
to grab the camera. This shot, your lips
against her nipple, then flat belly skim
down to intersect with me, begs a frame,
an empty wall, a dozen admirers
giddy with Cabernet and toast points.
Your fingers in between us; I close
my eyes again, am swept away.

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Zombie Logic Review, and The Literateur, among others.

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