Why Not Y

What I'm pondering is not the why
but the what and how.
The who, when and where,
but especially the Y are known.

I'm pondering the C's and O's of tracing
perfect (who knows?) breasts,
oh yes, also the U's of cupping them
as you close in with a salivating I,
or again, O, upon red nipple-fruit.

I ruminate on J's, from the cleavage,
snaking down around the navel
and the endless M's and N's as you nuzzle
down there for just the right spot.

I think on the E's scratching your back
down up, down up, like miniature rakes.
and the dark W's of fingers tangled in hair,
as, on the brink, you each moan O H  G O D,
like we all do, instantly religious when our bodies
do not fail us.

And then the S's sashaying across the buttocks
as you lie perpendicular to her prone form.
Or, otherwise, the X's made of two spent bodies,
and Z's, tender zigzaggings, as thanks for such release.

Yes, it's the what and how I chronically lust after,
that sumptuous alphabet soup of the forbidden,
the vocabulary of “this shouldn't be happening,”
but did anyway.

Again, the Y is known.  Just look at its two hands
reaching towards heaven. It has a victory's V
and is tethered by a trunk. 
Still, it has but the one leg, could easily topple.
If it does, I'll know nothing at all.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2009