The women were wounded songbirds.
Their muffled cries blended,
tempting you to rescue them.
Their provocative feathers and flimsy wings
held hostage under slender limbs.
A whimpering, "You're suffocating me,"
causes you to avert your gaze.
"Get off of me," so thunderous, so potent,
it crackled over the men's snarls of pleasure.
"It's just male fantasy.
Keep going.
You're almost there."
Each space is different from the other but the same scene:
warm-blooded crawlers slithering in all directions,
sobs seeping through the walls.
Was it their anatomy that permitted them?
The curves of their beaks,
the wistful glint in their eyes,
and their silvery tongues?
Refuge beckoned you closer,
honeyed words timed with their pleas
mimicking your footsteps.
Sweat rains down your forehead,
scornful laughter, a faraway song.
Until their hisses replay in your sleep,
arguing with arrhythmic heartbeats.
