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Rod WillmotBeautiful sparks in all kind of directions. Not the stylistic consistency that one sees in book-a-year poets, but more honesty, and a fine intensity.
—poetry editor, Black Moss Press
[Note: A gopi is one of the cowmaid lovers of Krishna.-Mark]
Last night my Lord came to me.
I had lain many nights waiting,
hoping His favor would find me,
there in the dark.
When He came, He came in silence-
I did not hear Him enter,
did not see Him till He stood by my bed.
I gave a small cry,
but He reached out His hand to quiet me,
to soothe me.
Then He slid beneath the covers,
and my arms received Him.
I have not been known as a passive lover,
yet, feeling the weight of this man upon me,
I wished only to lie and receive His strength.
His hands were gentle,
his fingers sensitive,
and His touch, wherever it fell,
made me feel my skin had come alive.
His mouth pressed my mouth,
and when I felt it on my neck and breasts,
my body trembled in reply.
When He entered in, I begged for roughness- but He would have none of it.
Slowly He moved, and smoothly.
To my delight, I felt the fire building- to my surprise, I found the mild more forceful than the strong.
I felt Him build within my swelling joy,
and when He came,
I felt as if a light had flooded me.
"Lord," I cried, "my Lord."
But I did not come with Him.
Lord help me, I could not.
Even then, something held back.
When I had received His all,
he did not forget me,
but gently stroked me
and whispered pleasure in my ear.
And when I cried,
he comforted me,
and told me not to mind,
and promised He would come again.