I Mold You, I Bake You

I squeeze the moon over your body,
scattering its white musk
over the sanctity of your hills,
then slowly yet firmly knead the wetness,
sinking it to your womb’s waters,
making your heart and breath
come to a standstill.


Your flesh,
dough under my fingers,
in the heat of my passion
baking into a bread-loaf that I raise,
to melt in my mouth.

Of Feasts

Let me knead your belly
slowly raising the moon
to birth it full from upon your lips,
crowning a heaven shivering
with the surge of your watery moans.


You gaze into my eyes,
the hidden pool of my soul
and sweet words come
dripping off your mouth,
rolling full and lush from your lips,
poetry littering your breasts and belly
like ripe figs and crimson grapes
aching to be crushed
between our merging bodies,
to be a feast for the fiery hunger
raging inside my chest.