Good Clean Sex

The storm washed the windows clean.
And I feel clean myself.
I want to sink into a woman.
Feel her squeeze and stutter around me exploding into light before returning to satisfied slumber as the sun rises, while I quietly adorn her temple in sweet dark tea, fried eggs and oranges. Son House or Otis Redding drifting over the dusty record player.

Too bad we are quarantined.

I wonder as the whites crackle to brown edges, what late youth would have rendered if I watered my roots with the Quakers.

Had made my way back to Celo offering honest love for honest labor.

I think of Rachel.
When we are free to travel over the mountain.
I’ll sit in companionable meetinghouse silence with Friends, barefoot, mud from Hannah Branch caking between our toes.