Sylvie Hill

Shotgun

We come at the same time.
These men speaking of simultaneous orgasms.
But don’t you know great sex starts outside the bedroom.
Foreplay started at coat check, he said.
And mom said it was all about if he opened the car door.

Can we get the boat out into the water
properly with the motor not tearing up the grassland
or the shore, and do you have the bait?
I made sandwiches, got the tacklebox?
And I will cook the walleye when we return later.

Simultaneous – everything!
How you know when to flip my steaks
at 4 minutes into the grill as I fetch the cakes
and a table spread for friends to feast
how we dance to set up the potluck and greet them.

Sameness in – tooth brushing!
At night – you used mine in a London, UK hotel.
Your big black Maori eyes and a faraway smile.
And the way you pushed me back in the hedges.
And the way you pushed me back into our bed(s).

Togetherness – but far away!
Seasonal relations.
“Fusional” is what we all aspire to.
It’s why I cry when I reach the moon, solo.
Ceasing a moment together – seized: affinity, home.

… in climbing anticipation and – freeing
… in mind-fucking fuck and toughest erection – releasing
… in that knowing glance and a pupil’s warning
… the time is now, our bodies folding.

The greatest act of accepting while you’re giving
And the greatest love of giving while taking
And the practice it takes for a simultaneous orgasm in fucking
…is over groceries, and fights, and laughs, and house cleaning.
And they chalk up the dance in a one-night stand to magic.

They know nothing.

As I’m shaking the meat
And you can’t find your beat,
with your work stress, your smoking, and your drinking.

As I’m cupping you curving,
and sinking into your hips
with your willing admission it’s never been like this; amazing.

As I’m riding you triangle,
that you wanted to try but was too shy.
Intimidated, will be impossible for us to reach “simultaneous”, tonight.

In concept we’re all great lovers in writing.
In art our bodies shine like radiant reality.
What of you dead couples – have you no memory of fusing?
That you do not bring forth this incredible bonding!

Best be single in such dreams of achieving.
Wasting moments away from love in not climaxing.
Give each their share, and meal to each.
But share the glass, tasting wine, entreating.

Le fusil – a shot in the dark, fusing.
Like double-murder suicide
It’s no wonder, it’s une petite mort
finger, fuck, love, and french-kiss me.

And I always called shotgun.
And Shotgun was what they called me.
But pushing past you first, and always in a blast…
Betrays my desire to arrive separately

but jointly, at last.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, December 14, 2019

Image: “Death of a Poet” by Loui Jover