What’s not to like in a woman?

What’s not to like
in a woman,
what’s not to love? 
Why, the liking
and love unrequited
 — from her placid wait 
for first move
fearful (virgin unveiling 
of my tremulous
heart) to taunt
in hair-curtained
toss and turn of head, 
fate fear foretold:
her feral focus
on meeter prey, 
stalk of hothouse bloom; 
quicksilvered tongue’s 
nine-tailed lash; 
unyielding teat
and denied thighs 
tight twined;
that fisted heart 
against embrace; 
and tantric ardor
in ambered swoon 
 — when rending 
limb from limb 
for feast
on my flesh
is in itself
sweetest surrender — 
Is it the woman
in me, or man in her 
that sours alchemy 
otherwise destined?
I’m the guy Gaia
must meet, mate: match 
fused aflame:

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.