Carte Blanche Poem by David McLansky

Your skin is white as alabaster
I stroke your skin without disaster
I touch you beneath your loose nightdress,
There’s no resistance to my caress;

In fact you take your hand in mine,
And cup it to your breast sublime,
With thumb and finger I twist your nipple
Your body shutters in a ripple;

With fingertips I brush your torso,
You sigh and urge me to do more so,
Your shadowed white topography
Stills my breath with ecstasy;

Your body is no sanctioned land
Which I approach with shaking hand,
Fearful that I may trespass
And so arouse your fiery wrath;

Rather it is my private park
Where I can sport without remark,
A landscape of pleasure, my soul’s domain,
Oh swelling mounds, oh fruited plains!