Holding In
She lies and looks at him, his now closed eyes,
His slightly glossy eyelids with a glint
Of brown and purple in their shine. His thighs
She does not look at. They contain the hint
Of forceful thrusting still, a hint of hair
Involved, that force enough to linger still
Inside her memory’s guts. He did not spare
Her, thrusting shard-like, steep. Thrusts made her shrill
With need like pangs, perhaps like pangs to come
In childbirth if he had his way. She turns
Unknown to him. She’d felt his spurting thrum
And now inside his malest sterness burns.
She welcomes this, this utterness, his shot
Along eternity. She holds it, taut.
~ Phillip Whidden