“ In Preparation for Her Lover “ It is an ablution,
c. 2001, Miriam M. Wynn
A ritual distinct,
A baptism bold and quietly made
Behind every boudoir door,
Behind every silken screen.She,
Slowly banking on a cold-hot fire of
his own desire,
Is made pungent and rhythmic,
Her very body echoing the fire in his loins,
Preparing to answer him.She
Arrives in her chambers slightly breathless,
And thoughtful,
Determined to make this sweetest ritual special,
For him.As much for herself as for he,
The chosen one who will soon receive her many
secret gifts,
This is a dance of a thousand veils,
A song of a million hymns,
A kiss of a plentitude of perfume sprays,
And dashings of scented powders,
all in preparation for –She knows what tonight, this night,
And every night after with him will hold.
She hopes,
With a dash of oil here, and a kiss of powder there,
That she can anoint her body as the temple to
forever display his desire for her,
Her curves an echo for his eyes,
Her breath the rhythm of his own.She hums, singing softly,
Hands gliding first to caress this wondrous shape,
And then to slide across that,
Reassuring herself that every inch of her skin
Has been prepared for love.She smiles with a knowing smile,
Anticipating the moment when he will remove this piece of silk,
And there, present her with warm, wet, kisses.
He will moan, beside himself,
And she will guide him back to calmness,
Prideful in what she has done to him,
Exulting in the fruit borne of her preparation.Time is necessary,
To soak each limb, each delicate feminine structure,
In each step of the ritual,
To douse it in sunshine, and slide it into the milky moonlight,
First her full and seeking lips,
Then her demurely angled chin,
And then her proud and erect breasts,
Ah yes, and then her slender ankles,
Of course her fragile, pretty wrists,
Followed by dainty, graceful fingers,
The blissful arch of the small of her back,
The two shy dimples there, below,
And next the silky, sliding thighs,
And after so much else, the pearly toes;All this, to be washed in the sacred waters,
So that all might emerge glowing like a fire,
Burning with a sweet liqueur, the ripe, bright smells
That define she, the female,
Goddess who will forever wrap herself around
He, the male,
God who will forever curl himself around
She, his eternal nurturer, while she
Turns within and without the very being of he,
her champion, who, unaware as he is,
feeds off this ritual, needs it as surely,
as powerfully, as insistently,
as she.