The Anchor

Eye watering, shuddering
Womb racking, convulsing
Tantrically constructed, no?
Conducted, climbing up.
Both clawing frantic.

Cresendo and whip that puss.
Torso thrash, reality abandoned
She is and what have I wrought?
Her iconic slut image intrudes
And she wonders,
Can I return?

This!
A perfect moment outside time
A home, thronelike.
The anchor in her womb.