Fridays

The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue

the tongue, the teeth, the lips.

Warm peppermint breaths engage each other in the chasm between trembling mouths.

Gingerly make contact

with sweetness and prudence,

like a timid child

face to face with a fearsome beast,

regal and dignified.

Finger by finger,

extend the palm.

Hands on hands on necks on hands in hair.

Drawn together in a pulsing rhythm by an intense, invisible electricity.

The unpredictability is a powerful driving force.

The tiny girl, enveloped by an angelic glow, furrows her brow as she distresses over the risks

of perhaps losing a limb, of having misjudged the character of the magnificent and threatening creature towering before her.

Had she been a sagacious and experienced professor, she might judiciously mull over in her sculpted brain the overall benefit of her actions.

But she has yet a tender and innocent head

that is easily swayed by goo goo and gaga.

She can only imagine as much as her limiting mental faculties will allow.

She cannot aptly evaluate if the agony of pain will be worth the chance to merely graze the silken fur of the wild animal!

But within seconds

before any feeble judgment can be made

The little cherub is swooped up weightlessly to the broad back of the beast,

her life completely at his mercy.

She has a deathgrip on the beast's luxurious mane

as the two plummet through the wilderness,

one atop the other, one dependent on the other.

The velocity is unbearable.

The heat intensifies.

Strip to the bare necessities.

Urgency builds innumerably.

The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue.

The sucking, the pulling, the gripping, the tingling.

Finger nail imprints in the skin.

The beast is a torpedo through the trees,

cutting through brush with magnified force.

Raw with windburn, the child's face is etched with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

Her fingers desperately clutch the weak strands of silk as she try to maintain a strong hold.

After all, they are the only threads keeping her on the tumultuous ride.

Each moment more on this primal roller coaster

is another minute she cannot retrieve.

Will each minute have been well-spent?

Or will she feel cheated as she dismounts,

robbed of her innocence and purity?

The beast will protect her fragile body from vines and trees and other predators,

but how well can he really shield her from emotional daggers?

The animal runs to feel the wind in his fur, to challenge his agility --

not to give the girl an earth-shaking experience marked notably by absolute elation.

But the lion cannot speak.

He cannot ruminate, he cannot ponder aloud.

He can but expel an occasional primordial roar or moan

that the girl is left to decipher,

she with her limited cognitive abilities,

she who is incapable of judgment,

she who can only be driven by instinct and desire and apprehension.

How does she balance?

How does she ever know if she made the right decision to ascend the beast?