the giant woman

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The Giant Woman


Eight thousand feet high and bumping lumpy this morning:
chin nodding chestward to the beat, the
slapping whack of pelvis ’gainst cheek.
Chill Spencer Gulf air blasts sharp through my hair,
every sweet grain of it reeking of you.
I slump to sleep in the cockpit, falling agape t’ward your slit,
the arms stretched in circumhug
round the joystick to your breasts, full and milkdough soft.
Flying out, we slid smooth along the
back of your calf,
following the seam to the kneepit.
You were crouched like a panther over Adelaide:
Giant Woman, hands and knees;
and we climbed slow the thighback to your cream here at 8,700,
from where the other leg soars white and
perfect down to its knee on Noarlunga.
Over the peninsula we curve across your bumcrack,
The beacon winking “Here lad, here”
while your rose lift and the cedar and brie
and the whey funnel wrap me like cool powdered velvet,
turning silk as the sweatruns,
pulse pumpthrob and fluffdown, tonguelick, butter in the pan;
headswoon, heartsick, I gotta be your man.
We surge home over Spilsby, soft at first.
Then, finding the rock hardness
of the spine from the inside,
the wall of you, with one elbow on Whyalla,
the other on Wedge Island
and your sweet strong chin
ploughing the breeding hollows,
the troughs of baby whiting and oyster,
spewing me into the Bite through a
smile wider than Coffin Bay.

There has been no climax.
You will teach me more.


Philip White













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