The Goddess is dancing again.
Her wild tarantella surges
through cell and sinew.
Shakti rising, they call it
but it is more a ravaging.
A molestation so loving
that flesh itself must speak
with the wild tongues of forest fires.
I am an image of what love becomes
when it falls for itself.
Immodestly I demand
more transfusions of intimacy
more onslaughts of tenderness.
I want more.
I want to be Her own delight
as She shudders and wails
in this tussled bed of surrender.
To feel Her pleasure in me
as She pushes upwards through
a striving stem
to bloom
in the open mouth of Her bliss.
