Swing, Batter
At point of overwhelm, I always seek a swing set—and you— you're the rush of air that settles my soul. That explains the flushing burning way I said yes. I could have said more but baseball is a tired metaphor for fucking, and besides, This is not a competition; it's a fuck- damn Renaissance. Reckon you're Botticelli 'bout to splatter your essence upon the canvas of my pretty face. And maybe all you are is an itch to scratch. But my curiosity for the way your breath feels on my neck is more than idle. Like maybe we could swing just once. All's I know is when we're night-sharing one minute turns into eleven in the span of a breath I wasn't aware I was holding but I like to dive deep and I'm not afraid of your depths let me reach the Mariana Trench of your soul I have oxygen enough and besides drowning never killed anyone. Two truths and a lie. I like the idea that I can be soft for you: don't have to pretend to be ok when I'm not. Feel like a kid coz I've not been here before. You take my breath away with hand to throat. Line by line you subtly, brutally break me. This is probably a performance piece. But, as long as we're being self-aware, let me just say I am a slut for strong enjambment. I would spread my soul open here. You've not yet seen How hard my primal can get when we're in the throes of that. Rush at me, don't @ me. Reckon you're Titian with your sacred profanity coz fuck. Never thought I was a poet 'til you slid into my now and now I'm thinking, don't ever leave. You're the rush of air that settles my soul. a swing set—and you— at the point of overwhelm, I always seek. ©2023 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller
