A large conch shell rests on the bookshelf/headboard,
a Jamaican treasure from a long-ago vacation.
Our play just made it rock the bed’s width,
as if it were back being pushed about by waves.
The shell opens like a smile, its lip jagged-edged.
The inner surface is glassy smooth, vibrant pink,
one end spirals in upon itself.
I think of the ages it has been on earth,
the distance it has traveled with me,
the oceans it’s traversed before.
It just whispers, “I’ll be here forever…”
I look and listen in awe and wonder at God’s creation.

My lover rests on the bed after waves of orgasm,
thighs splayed wide, as if tied to bedposts.
I lie between them, toying with damp curls.
Sex with this Floridian is like a vacation I am on,
as well as her supple form.
She opens her jagged labial lips with a smile for me to kiss.
The inner surface is glossy smooth, vibrant pink,
her clitoris and hood resemble a wishbone, or a gateway arch.
I think of an age-old poem:
“Your thighs are numbered, two,
and are as are the poles of the earth,
for all that there is, is between them.”
I don’t recite it, just whisper, “I want this moment with you to last forever…”
I look and lick in awe and wonder at God’s creation.