Tag: poem

Sex

Like a strobe light,

my nipple flash from my

bra cups,

overflow of myself and my softness.

He seizes me with his smart hands.

He knows what to do.

He will tease my peaks

and stroke my heart in

small, deft movements.

This is the game we play—

him catching me over and

over again like a ball.

I throw myself into clothes,

then shed them like unwanted baggage.

It is dark at the fringes

of my lomographic mind,

and in the center is my man,

plunging into me like a

lamp into an outlet,

completing my loop.

My hips squeezed in the

straps of lingerie,

I wait breathlessly for that

meaningful motion of his

hands tugging my panties

down just a little,

giving me permission to

unwrap myself

in his mute language.

My fire begins at my neck.

The beginning of pleasure

presides over the creased

space between shoulder blade

and ear.

That is where he starts—

at the beginning—

wise to my whimsical womanhood.

Husband and Wife

I am a well he drinks from
as he spends his seventh day
wandering the desert.

I’ve camped in waiting
And know the roughness
of the terrain,
the burning banality of work.

He built our home by hand
and like a bird I added
shiny things to reflect
the sun a thousand times
to guide him home.

My body is his haven,
the end of a chase
and the beginning of a pursuit.

He lays his head on my breasts
slides his hand down my belly.

The well will never run dry.

Old

After fate untwisted,
she left a trail of
disastrous death in my driveway.

I need an incantation
to summon the voice in my
hands.

Sprawled lazily across
the concrete,
hieroglyphics bleeding
with age.
I drew them.

My people ran down
the lane years ago
to hunt the sneaky beast.
I am the only one left,
struggling to clutch my ochre
with broken hands.

Tongue

In the noon glow,

the thrill of intimacy

while she maps me with
her tongue.

She knows my hips and

my secrets.

I know her shoulders,

her navel.

On the table,

my thoughts

on her sweet, moisturized skin,

my senses.

She has one finger in my world,

then her tongue on my secrets

polishing them.

Misplaced Sky

The naturalized sky

does not fit in here,

stylizes himself after

the hapless fop in the café.

 

Before the sky signed up

with us,

I was like a firefly

in a jar with no lid—

except I was too stupid

to leave.

 

Before sky,

we had limitless

and endangered.

 

Now we have a cap

binding our angels

closer to us,

and selling our demons

into our authoritarian world.

 

Ether is just a dandy,

the accumulation of

blue, just garish.

He doesn’t belong here.

Everyone is looking

at him.

Flavorful Ghost of Pink

The wanton thunder laps up
the silence.

Sweat from a world of
goals spills out over the street.

My skin is dry.

Oceans in my ears
receive cargo ships of lead.

Fishing in front of the shops,
the woman with
an unknowable face.

She is the only one
Who has an umbrella,
The only one who doesn’t
Need one.

I want her to speak a
language of breeze behind
my ear,
letting her fingers wander
over my shoulders then down.

The flavorful ghost of
pink will hover over us.

I have nothing to grip
but my body when her hands
dip lower
like cloth into a basin.
 

Facts and Figure

My husband is cloaked

in information.

When he slips my pelerine

off my shoulders,

the heat of my borrowed home

sinks into my chest,

exhausted.

Mouth on mine,

he breathes empire into me.

Always his tongue studded

in stats.

Interested,

I absorb his mind.

I absorb everything.

I absolve the world of nothing.

My husband kisses me

with countries I’ll never see.

With all his facts he

warms my figure.

Cut Short

(The celestial sobbing

of a year cut short.)

When the world ends,

we will all be high,

laughing at the telenovelas

we have lived.

The fire will clash with ice.

But where it all really

breaks down

is the anticipating

burning in the dumpster.

Like champagne

the old distrust bubbles

out from my upturned tumbler.

Now there is nothing

but trust.

(We all know how it ends.)

Pastels

The lake was created

with pastels

and sometimes I smudge

God’s work a little

when I pass through.

In my little canoe

I row with only

a nebula for company.

The gestation time

for my poignant pointers

is seven days.

My pace swells.

On the shore,

so many men link arms

with so many women,

drapes and windows.

Ideas are born to separate.