Poetry
 
When your hips come down, when
you enter me, I am thinking
of iambic pentameter.  This is not
to say I don’t love you, that I am not
in the moment—rather, thrusting
in five beats, one short, one long, one
short, etc., amused to have you
rhythming me.  I test you with a switch
to trochaic tetrameter, startle you
with an inexplicable spondee,
leave off with an ellipsis . . .
And when we flip, and my hips
come down, that moment I look at you
before straddling you?  That, my love,
is a caesura.

Lauren Tivey

If you have any comments on this poem, Lauren Tivey would be pleased to hear them.