It starts with an idea;

sublime torture...

the bluntest of instruments.

Think of apricot marmalade,

with a touch of crimson cayenne,

spread slowly about a nipple

and over the folds of an areola.

Think of the sun making it melt

and wafting its scent to the bees.

Think of the sweat that bleeds salt

and distills the pepper to pucker.

A bee hovers and buzzes

seeking purchase among swirling fingers.

Everything gets hotter and wetter

and the buzzing gets louder

and what was sublime becomes tempest

as fingers knead and pull

to rise above the swells of salt;

and the buzzing gets louder

as everything and everyone begins to nibble

and slurp, nipping at times fevered,

wanting to swallow or be swallowed.

The buzzing subsides as all are sated

but fingers never rest in fact or mind

and they push, shove, pull, scrape, press,

above all press and pulse.

There is not wind, just the earth gasping,

silently because it is not alone,

but wanting to scream the way it has

when truly not alone.

She has a date

and I tremble for the world.