neil rollinson

It slips down your chest,
moves on your skin like a woman
hurrying in her yellow dress, the long
transparent train dragging behind.
It slides down your belly and into your
pubic hair where you burst
the yolk with a tap of your finger.
It covers your cunt in a shock
of gold. You tell me to eat,
to feel the sticky glair on my tongue.
I lick the folds of your sex, the coarse
damp hairs, the slopes of your arse
until you're clean, and tense as a clock spring.
I touch your spot and something inside you
explodes like the blowing of birds' eggs.

Insatiable these mornings, full
of a drunk excitement, your eyes
have the glazed look of a woman
who hasn't slept all night; you wake me
with mouth open kisses, the smell
of a different room in your clothes.
You take off your dress and show me
the stains on your skin
like the trails of exotic gastropods;
a body paint of semen
which I rehydrate with my tongue.
I trace the splash across your stomach
and over your breast, a thick dried
river of it, flooding again; your nipple
rough with a smear of salt.
That was one hell of a shot.
I suck on you greedily and slide
my tongue where his own tongue
must have slid long into the night,
and when all trace of him is gone,
except the smell in your hair
we make our own maps on each other's skins
and we fuck like we never do
without this heat inside you, without
this ghost of a man drifting between us
like a lover sharing our bed.