River Otters At Play

Love
as it ought to be made:
leisurely, buoyant, liquid.
The river otters roll
over, the male a hapless sailor
holding hard to the capsizing
keel of the female.
Over
          and under
they sink,
bubbling desire, emerge
           au pair
sucking night air,
circling together,
           clasped
one to the other–
otter to otter.

Love as play,
in this they are always
faithful and true.
Love made as such things
ought to be done, with grace,
                       for fun.
I have seen them before,
not locked like this,
but moving free,
                         in synchrony
dive and surface together,
anxious to spy the other’s face–
okay, they say, and dive again,
weaving their submarine passions.
Or on the slippery bank,
                                     slide
over the other’s oily back,
musking each other
as they enter water,
each quick, sleek movement
a kind of foreplay,
sensing the other’s wet wishes.
Now they are in no hurry;
as the light fails
they court the dark waters,
stirring them,
and, deep down,
limbic me.