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Please note that this content is sexually explicit. We recommend that you should not read this content if you are offended by sexually explicit material.


In the night of vacant circus muted black
Where no one watches my trapeze back
I just let go: free diving open armed
Onto the sure-fire safety net of our
Epithalamic makeshift bed, from the bedroom
Door to hardwood floor, where our shadows
Meet, bold and folding. Inhibited
As playful pets, we bounce the Masai tribal
Terpsichorean and bump every hanging
Picture frame askew; metronomically, we swing
Without fear, the Josephine Baker jive, we two.
Then, fully broke, breathless, spent
And wooed, we lie and wonder,
Did the neighbours hear us screw?

The Orange

We watched the Swallowtail butterflies
sip nectar from the white blossoms,
and surprise us in their rhythm of flirt
and quiver; into a tantric love trance,
deep in the bosom of the Rutaceae bush.

Two seasons passed. Anticipating
the patient bud of promise
that grew heavy on the limb.
This morning you rose to pluck it,
ripe in the garden, just before it fell, to earth.

On the kitchen bench,
we contemplated this round, vivid legacy;
a fax of last summer’s sun.
You pared it and pressed it, cupped
in your stalwart hold.

Twisting from the wrist – with full force wanting
and intent, your knuckles – white and wilful. Pushing
soft on the flesh, surrendering the tang; it penetrated
the whole room, until all the juice
came, until it was pulp.

Our eyes met across the bench.
You handed me your cup, full. Swallowing,
the orange was sweet, and strong.
And we remembered
the Swallowtails.


Image: Monika Donoso Markovina

© Monica Donoso Markovina 2014

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