July 26, 2015 § Leave a comment
I straddle my lover’s lap and read Walt Whitman to him.
I whisper exhalations of “Song of Myself” like
and my legs tighten around his waist
because literature and poetry is our aphrodisiac.
My lover’s face is in my hair, his lips brush
the corner of my moving mouth
and his soft hush voice in my ear
repeating, keep reading, keep reading…
As “Leave of Grass” escape my fingers and hit
the floor with a gentle thud
my lover’s arms are around me with fingers
in my back up under my clothing
And Whitman is smiling
because he wrote about such wonderful naughty things.
My lover paints me naked
he paints each imperfect curve
languid strokes of blue
hips, breasts, legs, and belly
round and rounder still
the painting always changing color
and never finished
This is the work we do together
being and being and being.
The paint never drying.
July 24, 2015 § Leave a comment
No one promised to be there, except the rain.
In the October downpour she choked on the afternoon light.
Too bright to take it all in.
Her eyes were wide open in momentary wisdom.
Her fear had faded to wonder as she rested her damp
head to his sweaty chest.
The sunlight struck her face like a spotlight
and she meditated on the rise and fall of his breath.
It would be hard to hold onto this man
it would be best to let him go and not to bother,
let the moment float away from the fairytale with this one
he was not capable, too much flesh to explore, too young
She sighed away the kisses from the previous evening,
and allowed the freedom of her breath to separate from his.
She exhaled into the force of nature and mourned nothing.
Tiny promises splattered against the window pane
and streaked the glass like memories
as she dissolved into the light’s dust.