I Didn't Expect To Write About Sex

Did you know that after I came, I imagined my pelvis had emptied out
into a dark cave you could crawl into, lay yourself down and fill my body
with your sleep? This isn't really about sex, is it? Yet I could write
about your tongue, how cleverly you rotated it like a key to slip
open every lock of resistance under my skin, muscles loosening
like a hundred doors creeping open across the conservative,
suburban town of this flesh, desire stepping into the open like Meryl
Streep in that film with Clint Eastwood, a wind calling forth the stiff body
from under her dress so wholeheartedly how could she not help but
undress, welcome it in. I could also write about your hands, tenacious
dogs of your fingertips unearthing pleasure from every pore, jumpstarting
nipples with the flick of your nails, each time you pushed in deeper
from behind. I must not forget to write how much I love you when you
warn me not to swallow; I love how I take you anyway into my mouth
like tugging a recalcitrant child back into the house, even though he
realizes deep inside himself that he would always long for home;
I love how you taste, what was inside of you now inside of me, sliding down
my throat like the sweetest secret. I could write about how when you fell
off the peak of your mounting hunger, your hands stayed anchored
upon my nape, as if to keep from drowning, as if to let me know,
"Even when I'm this far gone, I'd want you here. I'd want you with me."

©2004 by Cyril Wong

                                                                                                                                                                                               

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Cyril Wong is the author of four collections of poetry in Singapore, and he is also the editor of SOFTBLOW. Visit his Web Site.