First Night


I slide the soft and silky wrap
from your slim neck, slip it
down that firm brown form,
unveil your sweeping curves
and shadowed places --
the crowd who've come
to see our act of love
suck in their breath, become
bejewelled statues in their seats.

My practised fingers start
our foreplay -- I feel you tauten,
quiver like a half-drawn bowstring,
hear your almost voiceless murmur
Let's begin, my love,
I'm ready.  My strokes
start long and slow, lento cantabile:
your low-pitched voice, first soft,
begins to swell, sings wordlessly
of love and our desire.

The languor doesn't last:  bit by bit
you drive me to an urgent rhythm,
make me move with rising fire
and raise the pitch as high
as you can reach -- you throb
beneath my sweating hands
and stabbing thrusts. Entwined,
we reach the peak as one
and you fall silent, resting
on my shoulder. The watchers
shout for encores

but I'm drained, can only bow
my head in thanks
and limp offstage.



© David Nourse 2010

 

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