Red Nude
                                                                                  by
​                                                                   Daniel E. Blackston
 
Every sex poem starts with fire,
so let me paint, with water-words,
the salt-spray gloss of your inner-cheek,
that slight slope that shines
under the half-moon of your closed eye,
a glowing wake of moonlight
that a sailboat slides;
the spring-water of your hair
like underground falls that feed
lakes so dark only blind feeders drink
their chill. Your mouth red and wet, a rose
on a pond, your breath rhythmic
as waves while you split your legs
to show dark fur that triangles
like a capsized sail, soft as surf-foam
with wetness dewing a peeking sea-flower --
each nipple trapped like a butterfly
between thumb and forefinger,
nails blue as the deepest abalone.
The sea of your skin entangles you
in an inescapable net of pleasure,
your sweater the shade of snapdragons,
rolls like a breaker above your breasts;
your socks shine, white as Bermuda sands,
every wet thing about you burning.  

© 2022, Daniel E. Blackston

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