Caught

He spears me like a fish
on the spoke of pleasure,
one kiss on my bone, then hip,
then stomach, kissing its soft flesh.
His mouth works its way up,
and down.  I am caught, gasping
for air, writhing, lost in sweet
sensations.  “Stop please.”  “Why?”
“You know why.’  He waits.
I breathe.  His lips and hands start
to chart my skin again.  Is this what it is like
to die, I wonder?  Too late. My own self’s gone.
A four legged body not mine is mine.
He takes my hand and I am here again.
A sentient fish in an unmade bed.
His body warms me–my new blanket.
“Your feet,” he says, “are cold.”
“I am always cold.”
“And I,” he says, “am warm.”
Together, can we be
Temperate?

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