A string taut strung, I strain against her silence.

Longing for the resonance

Of my cage of oiled wood.

She will pull me, pluck me, hair and lip.

I will sing into the cleft between word and deed

(The sunwarmed hide,

Dust of leaves, the swollen forest taste, the things I forgot.)


For her, for her I will.

I will swim the sea of nascent ecstasy



Ready for the shouting break,

The willing wet thighs, the tangle of vein and flank,


Hands full of flesh released to rhythm from the

Cloying milk of thought.


For her I will strain, strung tight, into majesty

To pour out sticking streams of song.


(c 2014 Liz Reilly)

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