Wednesday, April 08, 2020

Her beauty draws them to her teats
that throb, swell, smell of salts.
Her strength lifts their boat,
as if her baby,
rocks them, murmurs, lulls.

She plays them.
Throws her breasts on them,
pulls them to her troughs,
wets them with her passion,
but she does not love them.

They know that
and head straight
for her foam-laced bosom,
prow slicing her pliant body,
careful to meet thrusts,
lest she swamp them,
draw boat and men
down to her darkness.

Her rage to ravish
makes cold-sweat boatmen one,
putting backs to oars,
pulling, pulling through to shore,
where she lies licking at their feet,
panting, sighing.

Boatmen in taverns
pass wine, break bread,
toast their mistress,
promise to return.