When your hips come down, when
you enter me, I am thinking
of iambic pentameter. This is
to say I don’t love you, that I am
in the moment—rather, thrusting
in five beats, one short, one long,
short, etc., amused to have you
rhythming me. I test you with
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,
is a caesura.
If you have any comments on this poem, Lauren Tivey would be pleased