I touch your vagina, like an iris
unfolding, labia menora’s petals
sensing caress of my soft fingertips.
Its tongue awaits my tongue. As I settle,
I taste your vagina, thick moisture from
a hidden spring secreting with each flex
and flinch. Did this nectar help gods become
immortal, its divine flow heaven’s text
of revelation? Did Bartholin know
what I now know? Drop his microscope, don
this wet sheath? And so my penis sheathes now,
diving through your vagina, Poseidon
recalling his first great surge as a boy,
swimming in ocean’s universal joy.
Roger Armbrust
July 3, 2008
