Making Love
by Mookie Katigbak

And feline the tongue hungry
for his beginnings and ends; the dent
between his collarbone and the low
drop to the navel where his ribs distend

When he holds you to his chest
to learn the tempo his touch drums
against your breast, he hears
the rhythm of a beast.

He enters you slow, then lunges
to break the prone wound open.
The seam gives; an involuntary
quiver, but this is not a heart—

Even as he says: this is how we love.
And you see the shared bed, the sheets
wrenched with finishedness,
the way a made thing is.

© Mookie Katigbak