The Temple of the Mother

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Last night,
purified on the sacrament of tequila,
he came to worship
in the temple of The Mother.

He parted my thighs with reverence,
entered my sacred inner chambers,
his cock direct and firm
with intention, prayer-like.

He buried his face in my bosom
and sucked on my full breasts.
I cradled his head in my hands,
ran sweet fingers through his hair.

Our scents mingled,
moans and whispers sounded,
kisses were deep,
our holy bodies glowed
with the radiant blessing
of unholy ceremony.

Past midnight we emerged
into the darkness of scant moonlight
filled with
a kind of grace.

An Ode to Your Inner Fat Girl

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She is condemned
and disdained
for her girth,
her untamed abundance.

I look at my thighs as they spread across the beach chair at the pool
and they seem as vast
as the Pacific Ocean
to my judgmental eye.
But my silky flesh
is clean and smooth,
pillowy,
inviting.
Men enter
my depths
with a shudder
of pleasurable relief,
like sliding
into a warm bath.

Life is hard
but my body is soft.

In Mauritania,
only fat women
are considered beautiful.
Fat is wealth.

The truth is
beauty is in the eye
of the beholder.

Why not hold yourself
and your loved ones
with a gaze of love?
We only have this one life.

I am not really that large,
but in my heart
I am a big woman,
fat and happy.