Her hidden fruit

Her hidden fruit

Her pink palms clasp a pomegranate and the flushed
flesh basks. Yes, the sleepy warmth of fingers seeps
into ripe belly, soaking ruby pulp. Ah-me-oh-my,
to be a thousand seeds stirring in deep jelly.

Flesh basks, yes. The warmth of sleepy fingers sweeps
a quivering handle, reducing bursting vesicles
before me. A thousand seeds stir and weep in jelly,
spilt at the pleasure of the sticky blade, dangling now – 

a quivering handbell. The sluicing, bursting vesicles
cry out in scarlet. Yes, open up for excavation –
split at the pleasure of the sticky blade (dangling now) –
meant for messy juicing, warm mammalian lips.

Crying out a scarlet yes, opened up for exploration
her mouth. Her tongue flicks mellifluous whispers.
(My, it’s made for messy juicing.) Warm mammalian lips
shape vowels, crude protean language. Yes.

Her mouth, her tongue flirts. Promiscuous whispers
of sea issue as seeds stirring deep in jelly. We
shape vows out of rude protean languor. Yes,
her pink palms clasped a pomegranate and I blushed.

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