Afterwards

‘Afterwards, don’t stop’
—says me, she
knelt over thighs, holding

in exquisite hands a
line that
rose with the lamplight

in a soup of spit & lube
down to my
coppery brush. Her

thin wrists rolling in waves
dipped ripples
along me, & up ,smiling.

Glasses removed of steam,
strength,
& breathing; her hands,

continuing to shape
myself, her
wet parchment wrapped

thin bones & red’s most
lucent nail
varnish, unchipped thumbtips

(out like leaves) swerve
over veins
the colour of bruise.

‘Afterwards, don’t stop’
—sighs me,
tightens she, poised for the

leap our breathing leans
towards, & white
bunches of sheets pulled in.

Between dark flickers of
my open eyes,
against the swell & falling

rain, she grins at me, still
strong—
dots of cool & soaked sound of

her bitten lip caress against
the final whimper
I plead over her slowing knuckles.