And now for the x-rated version of the aforeshared:
River Otters at Play
Love
as it ought to be made
leisurely, buoyant, liquid.
The river otters roll
over, the male a helpless sailor
holding hard to the capsizing
keel of the female.
Over
and under
they sink,
bubbling desire, emerge
au pair
sucking night air,
circling together,
clasped
one to the other -
otter to otter
love as play,
in this they are always
faithful and true.
Love made as such things
ought to be done, with grace,
for fun.
I have seen them before,
not locked like this,
but moving free,
in synchrony,
dive and surface together,
anxious to spy the other's face -
okay, they say, and dive again
weaving their submarine passions.
Or on the slippery bank,
Slide
over the other's oily back,
musking each other
as they enter the water,
each quick, slick movement
a kind of foreplay,
sensing the other's wet wishes.
now they are in no hurry:
as the light fails
they court the dark waters,
stirring them,
and, deep down,
limbic me.
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