AF WONSACK

Reverie

(the concrete nature of this poem lies entirely in its shape. The shape is that of a song-bird’s flight or of a leave floating to the ground. It dips and it swoops and it falls gently to rest in the final line.)

There is a bird around here,

I’m not sure what it is,

but I hear it sometimes

and its call sounds

uncannily like

a woman

on the trembling 

edge

of orgasm.

In it you 

can hear

the tensed folds of skin

between her brows

the glittered sweat

on the upper lip

of her open mouth

the soft push of

her breasts and scrape

of her nipples on your 

chest

the hard dig of her

mons into the base

of your belly

as her muscles contract

and make of her body

a downward flowing wave

until the soft wet

walls of her cunt

billow and then press

in around your hand

with a strength that says

I am here.

          and your cunt muscles

          compress and

          your belly hardens and

          your nipples tighten and

          your brow tenses

          in answer

          as you breathe

          the soft skin

          behind the corner of her jaw

          at the base of her ear.

Then I remember

that I am listening to a bird

as I walk down the street

and that passersby

might be wondering 

why I am smiling like that.