Moan
moan
By Beth Cortez-Neavel
Tell me:
how it feels
when you enter:
Tell me: how
my cunt, hot and ready
feels to you as you delve, delicately
into a slippery smoothness
that sucks at your foreskin
inviting you inside:
Tell me: your thoughts
when I sit on top
and lower myself, stretching
to grind so hard against you
vertically concentric.
Tell me:
what my nipples feel like, hard –
in-between your teeth, pulsing
underneath your tongue, rubbing
up against your chest
sweat mixing with sweat –
pink like erasers at the end of pencil.
We’ll make a deal:
I’ll let you know how it feels
when your lips press against me
when I thrash with joy
on the end of your tongue, pumping
soft and hard and wild
into me.
Tell me:
if you feel
what I feel
watching your cum
mixed with my cum
dripping down
onto the sweaty sheets below:
Moan.
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What it feels like is that I have to believe it enough for the both of us.
The show must go on.
Audience is waiting.
Finish up with wardrobe,
stretch tight the fishnets,
and make-up some story for me quick
before the little bit I have left
suspended on the tightrope
snaps like a spinal nerve.
I am hollowed by the knowledge
no real magic has happened.
I see in this poem the smoke and mirrors,
fine guy wires that make the illusion possible.
The stage performance is less enthralling now.
Ruined for me until I want to believe it
some more.
The nibbling thoughts chewed
through my faith in all other things.
Now this too.
Leering Want sits the grandstands.
The fourth wall shimmers like dramatic light.
Placate me,
smile,
reassure me that I came to be moved
and so you move me.
For that smile,
I will go out in the middle of the night
to a corn field marquee
and witness the miracle production
put on by a two-ring two-bit circus,
go home and tell my friends better just to see them jealous.
Tearing down the tent with me in it, that’s just mean.
My thoughts would go something like: grunt. And then I’d be ready for a good 20 minute nap.