if I could tell you all of me

through the tears I cry

spilling my love over my smiling, laughing lips

slipping into yours

 

emotions too strong to grasp

cannot be contained

I try to tell in half-sentence babble

love I cannot yet explain

my heart is full

with words too beautiful for speech

 

I could cry into your chest

the story of my soul

sing it to the beat of your heart

I could dream you a vision of me

where words are left unspoken

hoping you can see

Bob Dylan on a Cold Couch

My fingers learn to do yoga.
They callous at the tips, and I
cannot feel you nearly as well.

Dylan learned to play guitar before
I was born. Had I been in 1950,
I would have run away from home.

Your banjo sings to my skin.
Goose-pimples are like snow-capped peaks
And your song skis my shoulders.

I sing in the car, and the shower,
and crossed-legged on your cold couch.
You prepare breakfast and green tea.

Sometimes fingers dance until
they are broken. Dylan didn’t want
to talk about that, either.

Dawn wakes us in the morning.
I laugh at everything now.
Let us perform on a small stage!

Energy Between Us

energy between us
swells and crashes
live-wire strung lips
poised, soft-wet
tongues entangle
fingertips to faces
palms cradle dizzy heads
butterfly eyelids flutter-close

eager hands explore
quest soft places
map trails of our passion
snaking up under clothes
straps slip from shoulders
pants from hips
bare bodies fall into bed

trunks flush
limbs intertwine
you grow, I blossom
sweet welcome
whispered names
petals parting
entering with a gasp

drum-beat rhythmic
catch-release dance
hips arc to meet
hold deep
hot breath quickens
opera of moans
symphony of climax
trembling into other worlds

energy between us
magnetic fingertips
tracing magic contours
sweat-wet skin
salty under parted lips
whispering promises
starry eyes hold each other
sigh to still
and I welcome the weight of you

Gods of Saturday Night

I wake
too early for a Sunday
mind still buzzing
memory of a kiss between my thighs
still aching, pulsing
I can almost feel your body
still pressed against mine
almost feel your hands
and your fingers…

I love your fingers
Just one fingertip
I lose my words
lose my mind
tongue-tied
heavy eyes
ragged breath
wet and wriggling
beneath your touch
and your mouth…

I love your mouth
manipulating my body
manipulating my mind
your tongue lights fires
but you don’t leave scars
you leave memories
smoldering in me
body begging for more
just one more taste
just one more time.

Your lips kissed shivers
sprawling to my toes
I close my eyes and try
to recapture the night

You say there are rubies in my fingertips
and perfection in my pussy
and with your words and lips
you rewrite the map of my erogeny

You say one day at a time
I fear to look into the future
I didn’t see this coming
I don’t know where it’s going

Moving blissfully moment to moment
if a moment is all we can count on
let’s not keep count
just enjoy

I wake
too early for a Sunday morning
memories
buzzing in my mind
wearing your shirt
the scent of your body
clinging like a ghost
I bury my face into it
praying to the Gods
of Saturday nights.

I Need Warmth for Home

I cannot live in unpainted rooms.
No wall is left white.
I need warmth for home.

Honey walls beside pumpkin-spiced walls. Amber wood-grained lacquered doors. Warm, red, glossy door frames painted deep, wet red.
Chianti curtains. Lush, waving drapery hung ’round midnight’s windows. Drunk, long curtains falling slack and hanging on
to swirling wrought-iron rods.
Silky, oak barrel flavored rooms.
Rooms with tannins.

Not the sterile walls of rental houses. Not the over-clean of the office.
Not the eggshell, ivory, dove or linen of my mother’s homes.
I need warmth for home.

I need fields of strawberries in the Summer. The rusted undercarriage
of my Chevy truck. The soft, parted lips of a ripe woman.
The red of clay on the mountain side.
Barns, tractors, black eyed susan petals.
I need the coffee-stained color of my father’s teeth.

Sepia-toned, wood-framed photos smile at my warm rooms.
Frankincense and myrrh candles light the corners yellow ocher.
Bay window for winter mornings. Lattice shelves full of rose quartz.
Sunlight glitters through to highlight the cherry red Formica counter top.
Sunlight splashes on the teracotta tiles.
Sunlight rolls up the walls
I rag-painted myelf
while pregnant with my daughter.

I cannot live in unpainted rooms.
No wall is left white.
I need warmth for home.

Ghazal 1

I am neither the rolling wave, nor the warm sand between your toes;

I am the savagery of the tide ripping away at the sea floor.

You were content to sunbathe beneath your golden curls;

I was left to pray to the desert sand for water.

All of my self-proclaimed, prophetic jetsam;

what weak ink to be sloshed upon your paper!

Now that the sun sets, you’ve come to comb for pearls;

my words are picked over, only broken shells remain.

No wonder I fall again, on knees encrusted with blood;

complete abandon, singing bhajans into the ocean.