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

 

 

 

 

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