Pushkin and the Black Sea

He came to meet me shortly after
arriving—running down Odessa's Steps,
all ears on that compelling laughter,
all tongues in cheeks on the swing of those hips.
What did he want with all those women?
All he needed was a good swim in
my morning waves, my slow caress.
He'd run his fingers—then undress
those inner visions. I'd take him under
where deeper forces loosed and tensed,
his sweet limbs moving with and against
my gentle strokes, my swells and thunder.
Ah—it was always epic with him—
the way he'd meet my Black Sea rhythm.

Copyright © 2003 Diane Thiel All rights reserved
from The National Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission