by Kay Renz

We ride
I astride
your thighs.
Our moist flesh rubbing,
mouths open, we awe the air, reach
for bone throb,
the sweet-sour juice,
the fist unfisting muscles,
the almost graspable moon,
mount rocking
to a flash flushing —
Was it always like this?
Did Cro-Magnon seek the pulse,
the sun fire
of swollen seed release?
Did he howl, hairs standing on end
as life streaked into his woman’s womb?
Did she coming
to earth with soft gasps ask,
“Did you re-member your safety, Crom?”

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