His strength doesn’t show like a painting, at first,
more like a stroke color shown pressing your nose against the canvas.
He doesn’t mince words like the jocks scorn, or
like Matthew hedged falses and lies to make me feel better.
His strength is both the long stretches in down dog,
plank, and chaturanga, holding firm narrow arms that don’t
look like they can easily lift me onto his crotch, or
pull me tight while he pushes into me; even when I’m
fighting to flee.
He wasn’t the first to enter me, but he was the first
in my butt, knowing before I did how much I wanted it
and taking, what I offered like a
direct line to satisfaction.