You close the door

on her femininity

and tell her she must

only open it,

an inch at a time,

it’s hinges creaking

with hesitation,

for a man

who must be

‘the one.’

–

Have you forgotten

her windows?

–

Those brown eyes

those pinked lips

the wet beauty

between her legs?

–

It frightens

you so,

this Spring cleaning–

the windows flown open,

the dust and debris

swept out

as she inhales

unapologetically

the coolness

of truthful air.

–

For with it

she comes

and comes again,

unafraid of

these fears:

moans and sighs

from pinked lips,

unbroken stare

from brown eyes,

fulfilled need

from wet beauty

between her legs.

–

These windows.

This door.

–

There is no doorman,

no wooden wedge

to keep it propped.

She

holds the key

oils the hinges

swings it

wide open

as she

damn

well

pleases.

–

Her brown eyes

her pinked lips

the wet beauty

between her legs.

–

–

–

Image: Paula Bonet