Before we were born,

Before we were born,

our fathers' cars had fins.
In these invincible nets,
Our fathers swam up ladies' skirts
and down moist blouses.

Our mothers would gaze
at their reflections, touching
their breasts and massaging
lotion on every scaly inch of their bodies.

Our mothers shaved
their legs back then.
They put on satin camisoles
and woke up with dripping thighs
after frying up fantasies which swum
through the deep, dark depths.

Our fathers compelled
our mothers to wriggle
like insatiable worms on passion's hook.

Late summer nights,
our mothers' necks would flop back
and vertebrae arch.
Ravenous rivers rebelled
against our grandmothers
and their churches.

Our fathers instinctively licked
our mothers' earlobes and kissed
bellies and parted thighs.
They sucked
and slurped,
and nibbled
the native succulence.

Oh,
how heavenly
the salty coddle fin tastes
to a first-time fisherwoman.

These were our mothers
and our fathers in their first cars,
cars whose headlights swam
in and out of illumination,
whose radios gurgled,
who had fins.