Adore put him between her lips and held
his penis while moving it in and out
of her mouth until he wanted to come,
but did not, rolled onto his knees, and put
himself, all the soul he knew and would know
until age cascaded white hairs on him
and inside her he felt like a white snow
falling through her, taking in a swift rush
spent ovum and semen left over from
her last man, Ira, of whom she spoke now
once he extracted his penis from her
pussy. Ira, she said, gave me his tongue
until I liked to explode, then fucked me
over and over as long as the night
had moon shine brightly to keep us going.
She had turned to her eighties, and old age
meant little to her, never spoke of it,
nor did he although he was approaching
the end of middle age, the start of old
crust around his years with bridle hung
from this old horse saddled from youth
to ride mares until they wanted children,
and none of them did. No Iroquois
had a kid of his, nor did anyone,
and he knew only one whose I.U.D.
she showed him to reveal his sperm stretched by
her ovum on the perfect-circle ring.
Manuela Roma said, I can pop it,
no? and shocked, knew not what to say, said Yes.
She didn’t need more than her four children.
And after they split he knew he was right
to let go what humanity may know
serves the soul like manna but fails to make
tranquillity and joy the crux of home,
and children die the moment they are born.
Adore let him sleep and he did the same
for her. She held his penis with one hand
relaxing as sleep swooned him to her thighs.
(14 March 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander