In which Circe confesses that not all men are pigs.
The Rabbit
There’s a fullness to his lips that lingers
In my mind, ruddy rose against fresh cream
And in his hands, squared shape to his fingers
Yet taper thin wrists, structured in slim theme
I find him fragile, careful, yet not frail
Like a rabbit that freezes in your gaze
He reads as beautiful as he does male
Sets me compelled to capture, take and praise
Ah! Desire, catch his throat in my control
Down! Deeper! Command with teeth on his ear
By obeyed, marvel at the heart I stole
And play and prey upon his pleasured fear
Take and stroke what shivers and mindless thrusts
Tame the hare, and thus satisfy my lusts
English sonnets have 10 syllables and a particular structure I find is a good brain warm up for saying the point concisely. I don’t joke when I say Silver is my muse, as part of my experience of love is to feel something strongly enough you think it is worth sharing.
Ever notice the lack of love poems, by women, about submissive men?