My tomcat lover with his feral need
opens his paw to me, his eyes glazed
with desire, lips parted beseechingly.
I'm dry and furry as pot-pourri and
knock down his insistent charms with
a swipe. So he holds my hands and
imagines our lovemaking, with a closed
concentration, his hand moving faster
and faster in its steady rhythm. He
bites his lip; he swallows my lips; he
swallows my hands all over his body
exposed to me in its cinnamon litheness.
And I urge him on to his release
as tensed as his beating heart.
- Dedicated to Marge Piercy