When you open a book,
you open a pop- up of my life
or at least my breath
which seems to be lifting
my lungs up and back
in their timeless sea rhythm,
and I must be reacting
more obviously, breathing
a little too hard. Maybe
the sound of my breath
is catching yours or maybe
it's my chest moving more
apparently,
but I can't get the feeling
under control because
your voice is shaping words
in quiet rumbles with soft
precise authority
such that each syllable
vibrates your baritone
a little, and I almost feel
the mattress shake ever
so slightly, but it could
be that I just trembled
and a tiny quiver escaped
at the way your lips move,
open then shut and how
you hold the book
in your hands.
In any case you noticed
because you laugh gently
and skim the pages on me,
flicking them over my tummy
in a shuffle, covering me
with poetry and then
with you and a smiling
question
Oh you like being read
to, do you?
It's like striking a match,
and we press the words
between us like flowers
Against my will
I was brought here.
Kidnapped from my
home;
my freedom,
my autonomy is no longer
my own,
but now it belongs to another.
To me he has become all things:
master,
commander,
dictator,
lover.
To his will I must adhere
for disobedience will result
in a smack to my rear.
He likes to hold me down,
the strength of his wrists
keep me good and bound.
One look into my eyes and
I know what he means,
there isn't any need for so
much as a sound.
His kiss leads me to a state
of bliss,
his touch leaves me wanting
more,
all that he gives me is never
enough.
He can be simultaneously
gentle and rough,
sweet and gruff.
He is both yin and yang,
wild and tame.
He takes me to levels where
I feel as though I can fly,
the way he makes me feel I
could never, ever deny.
What started out as my
capture has now become my
pure, unadulterated rapture.
Summer should not
be ripe for sadness not
when trees toss their hair
like casual schoolgirls
but stand otherwise still,
cool in blind assurance
like feckless flowers
or fruit waiting to fall
from the vine.
The world overflows
with secrets but crows
jeer no matter the season.
I hear them laughing
in the mornings knowing
they will be fat
as plums on the snow
when our ground is frozen,
our branches whip thin.
I toss my hair and flutter
my fingers but otherwise
am still at the window.
I can't pretend sovereignty
over trees or plums but here
stories in squirrels, pines,
dragonflies, nothing
like people but animate
them to feel something,
to glimpse an uncle
in the forsythia brush,
a grandfather shadow
in slanting afternoon.
I've been meaning to tell you
that the sky is closer
to the earth here. It's brighter,
the clouds have more
dimension. I've been meaning
to tell you but I don't
know who you are,
just that you are fleeting
as a butterfly wing
or dandelion fluff.
When the moon rises
I quicken the stars, beg
them to whisper my name,
gather tears in the palm
of my hand and pretend
they are mother's, sister's.
I fly into the night to comfort
the moon and tell it we are
some kind of family.
As the two of us undress in
front of smoky, gray skies I
feel such a warm anticipation
tingling between my thighs.
She takes a hold of my hand
and leads me into the lush,
green wood,
then she pulls me so close
to him just like I knew she would.
She gazes deeply into
my eyes as she caresses the side
of my face so gently.
I can see her love for
me reflected in her eyes
so clearly.
The rain begins to fall
down in a soft mist.
She places her lips on
mine and we start to
kiss.
I feel her fingertips trailing
down my bare skin,
the sensation lights my fires
of passion deep within.
The rain begins to fall down
more heavily,
drops slither down our
bodies more steadily.
Her fingers tangle in
my et hair.
Oh, is this fantasy
or is this real?
She takes me down;
to the ground.
As our bodies intermesh
I feel soft, moist blades
of grass caress my bare flesh.
Our lips meet in a
passionate, luscious kiss,
in this present moment
I feel such exhilarating bliss.
The Wisdom of the Heart
sits to my left not right,
perhaps inappropriately,
but Henry Miller is sinistral
here though not unwise.
My wisdom is sitting nowhere
uncentered, snowflake swirled
or ground fallen.
Perhaps it will peek
up again crocus-like
when spring breaks
somewhat later in this town,
April being not a cruel month;
just days knitting my unravelled petals
back together,
looking for a green bench,
momentarily empty,
but with enough slanted sunlight
to bloom.
The day broke over your eyes, fluttered near
thick lashed, the iris leaf circled in bark.
I smiled upon your mouth full laughing, dear,
kissing the blood of lips against the spark
of dawn. This is how we wake, and thus begin
anew the path leading away from then
and how it was and what will be to win
nothing from her or him but start again,
believe that something pure can be exchanged
within the breath of hope awakened now
in battered souls that here are rearranged
from what once was, reshaped by questions. How
love do we know which way to go or be?
It matters not; our world is rich. Wait. See.
Freshly showered
raindrops tears
wax wane unfading
my inner landscape
merging cloudy two-seater miles
to a man in a hat and smiles
walking through aisles
automatic seatbelts click
encircled in goodbye snap
hello stairs Pad Thai
kisses
Now two regrets
rain small voices
wax wane unfading
the distant landscape
lifting clarity northeast
while my heart's two lobes
tangle in this dichotomy
of loss
of love
