She pushes her diaphragm in and out,
the rise and fall forcing air through her lungs
with rigorous precision.
Muscles burn, unused since college
when weekends were spent astride Puccini.
Her mouth stretches at his command,
a wide oval, to impress him.
Rising up, thick and undisciplined,
her tongue bobs against her soft palette
before she pushes it forward
to stick to dry teeth.
Then, somewhere within her ribcage
builds a slow-blooming madness,
carried to the surface– airborne–
before settling like a glittering refrain
on his face and shoulders.
The studio remains still,
filled only with acoustic echo.
Then his hand slowly moves to his face
to rub her in.