Weed Salad

            Her belly round and full as a British dirigible and taut as a shaman's drum beneath his honeyed lips felt vaguely seismic, her own personal moon entering a new phase. She trilled like a  musky woodland beast, rutting while enormously pregnant. Brother Ambrose loved her dearly. Sonya, his Russo-Innuit bride-to-be. Asian eyes in a snow-white Sitka face, flushed and sweaty now.
             He rolled her onto her side and gently entered her moss pit. 
              "Baby Cakes!" she gasped as her breasts leaked milk from all her arousal. Brother Ambrose looked upon her blackberry nipples in awe.
              "God damn, woman!"
              "Oh, Baby Cakes--"


                                                                                                *

              Sonya's wanton filigreed kimono had lost its obi. Her pregnant belly poked out like the harvest moon, its pugnosed button nuzzling the kitchen counter where she was fixing an arugula salad. Meanwhile, Brother Ambrose snaked into a pair of jeans he had bleached threadbare, ridding them of winedark motor oil stains. He felt such a love for her it was beyond passion. Together they had created a baby, something he and Cherry Blossom never managed to do. Theirs was a marriage of musical rebellion, buttucks flat on the floor as they perfected yab-yum, bodies locked within a yoga of crossed legs, a hookah bowl richly burning not far away. Her yoni wept honey, and it spilled over when he climaxed. Shiva's lingam, he called his prick. Dozing on the sofa he had just dreamed of how Cherry Blossom must have looked in death, with that cruel hunting arrow in her throat. Oh, dear sweet wife--
                 He hoisted himself, pulling invisible strings, like a wooden Pinocchio, to a spindly standstill. Not as limber as you used to be, old man! Sonya was slitting two bell peppers, one yellow, the other red, and never sensed his approaching hand. He grasped her naked belly as if it were a Hammond Atlas globe, the hand cupping Australia, just above her feral pubic pelt. He could smell the goat cheese she had brought out for the toasted baguette croutons.
                 "Oh, baby--" she gushed. There were cruets of balsamic vinegar and virgin olive oil.
                 "I see we're having weed salad tonight."
                 "Wild arugula, fresh from Washington."
                 "Mmm--so nutty."