Beneath your hands my breasts are tarnished earth;
they tremble not from passion but tilting
with memories, oceans of memory.
See those other reaching hands–wise-wrinkled,
familiar and cruel-gentle. See them search
child nipples and vulva petals that cringe
and weep with inexperience. Wild shouts,
betrayed, undulating screams roil under
the mantle for years and years . . . until now . . .
your hands plow the earth with conjugal rights.
Your lips baptize my lips with sacred fire.
Your tongue sips and sucks silence from my heart.
Your phallus fills my womb, living water.
Earth erupts and Dulcinea is free.
[Using words chosen from the Gordon Lightfoot song titled Don Quixote.]