She loves those first moments after a catch,
when the air is incensed,
tastes of desire.
She’s caught in the twin spotlights
of his perusal,
time frozen but for skidding hearts,
the trickle of sweat down necks,
the rise and fall of breath coming in soft pants.

Chase was given and taken,
but the taking’s not done.
A damp promise,
fragrant with passion’s spice,
invites him to strip away the last layer,
spread his feast on lush meadow grass.

But he waits for it,
letting the moment draw out,
anticipating an age old sign:
a lift of chin,
a tilt of head exposing a slender neck,
the soft flutter of lashes lowering,
a silent surrender of prey to hunter.

~Nara Malone

This poem is a contribution to the open-mic night at dVerse poets. Go here to see what others wrote or to join the fun yourself.

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