The Pleasure of Lusting

Susan McMaster
From:   Uncommon Prayer. Kingson, Ontario: Quarry Press, 1998.

                      —the pleasure of lusting
       after you is to stroke, with my finger
the hollow beside your eye so lightly
you only shift and turn in your sleep—
hmmm— a small, satisfied sound
and your arm drops across me
in sleepy caress, and fits
under its weight, the arch
leaves my back, I become soft
as the sheet, waver down
your snores

                   —or to lie, blanket to chin
       while you warm last night's coffee, lie
with one knee turned out, fingers idling
casual as the stroke for the cat
who sometimes rumbles beside us
as we toss, feeling everything
become fluid, rounded
a watery terrain

            —and then to pull you
        down to me, turn with one motion
from back to front, close my hands
around your ankles, close the triangle
as you rock me from below, as we
climb a long, slow wave to the
top, glide down

      —what pleasure, then
                  to drift into dream of rocking
       together up wave after wave
or wake, cup palm around
your shoulder as you drowse
beside me, watching

      —three small, sleek, blackbirds
                  in the tree outside the window
                              whistle and preen

                                    —roll again over you

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Susan McMaster's works copyright © to the author.