Opening
I am ripe fruit
waiting for his warm hands
pick me, bite, savour
touch the juice dripping
squeeze until I am gone
this is what you do with apples, pears, peaches, plums
when they are ready, bright, soft, bursting
you tear them from the tree and rip through skin, lick, swallow
save the core, plant the seeds
wait for them to sprout
Hunger
it started with breakfast in bed
sourdough, freshly toasted, steaming yeast
topped with spring sweet strawberry
moving on, we went deeper
sharing lunch on the patio, BBQ-burnt burgers
dripping mustard on the grass
sundown required chilled Chablis,
elegant water crackers, topped with
slivers of pungent Stilton
the day closed with our tongues
licking salty flesh, fingers softly caressing
bellies full of passion
Sunday Evening
Adam's naked in the kitchen
the fridge door's open and he's bending
inside
he says I've lit the BBQ
and I look at the mole on his left cheek
I hear last night's clinking of glasses
in a tub filled with bubbles
I chop onions, he hands me hamburger
cold wrinkled red
I toss it in a bowl, crack an egg
sprinkle oregano, thyme, rosemary
Adam stands behind me, pressing his refrigerator chilled
skin against my weekend sun warmed skin
his hands knead my ass
he rests his chin on my shoulder, watching
my hands squish yolk into spice and flesh
I say mmmm
and put your fingers inside me
his tongue flicks my ear
he lifts my skirt
as he obeys, I hum and form patties
slap them onto a plate
slowly slice tomatoes and listen
to the tick tick tick
of Adam's heart against my back and
relish the liquid movement he creates
he says turn around
and I say who's going to flip the burgers?
as I acquiesce and
my skirt slides to the ground
A Set of Instructions for Making Something
She is a cold hand down your shirt
Surprising your sleeping skin
Chill on heat stirring into your gut
She is a spoon, spinning,
Churning up lost memories
Writing a new recipe of possibilities
Odd how you have forgotten this
How strangers can sometimes hear your voice
Gaze wonderingly into your eyes
Recognize the things inside of you
That you thought you’d successfully hidden
Succumb to recognition, allow it to create surprise
Relish the rush that travels through gut to crotch
Listen to your mind tick, count the ways moments have
Of progressing from banality to sharpness
Smell the new spice rising from a stranger who is
A cold hand down your shirt
Surprising your sleeping skin
Chill on heat stirring into your gut
She is a spoon, spinning,
Churning up lost memories
Writing a new recipe of possibilities
Eat this meal, she says, placing it at your feet
Taste tomorrow
Casanova’s Women
they surreptitiously meet for lunch in August and May
order escargots and oysters, several bottles of the best Merlot
discuss motherhood and sketchy financials
they do not mention his name until they are sufficiently
enervated by shellfish and muzzy from the wine
his most recent conquest usually begins:
“When he told me of his other women, I was …
well, consumed with envy, you know?”
a chorus of understanding laughter ensues
“Honey, you’ll get over it. We all did.”
the waiter brings baskets of warm loaves and
bowls of softened butter
Casanova’s women reach for knives, spread bread
thickly, lick their fingers and commiserate
as they eat and talk and drink and remember
falling in love is
so imprecise and
dangerous
a cliff walk in the dark
you get into it unannounced
this car racing uncontrolled on a highway
with no speed limits
nothing to do but hold on
feelings become everything
words pour from a consumed heart
no brain filtering
just body talk
inevitably, falling in love
means becoming a moron
a temporary fool
for a reason
(for Annie)
there’s beer in the fridge and
nobody’s home
just me
and the words and the beer
all I deserve
don’t care anymore about morning
or lists
love sex trying too hard
what have they ever given to me?
[silence]
out in the falling snow
I’ll share myself with the frigid weather and
suck back all the cold ones
from the fridge
all I’ve got
heavy white flakes shape halos around the lightbulbs
and here’s me not believing in God
or angels
I’m just grateful for the booze
[wind]
if a woman cries alone in a snowstorm and
absolutely polluted
falls asleep
in a drift
and is found only
the next morning
curled up
stiff
who listens?
white flame clouds
white heat in the sky
the sky a mirror
of my heart
this moment, this picture
of an evening in autumn
etches itself on my skin
a reflection of my soul
less patience, you said
yes
time for me to burn white
as hot as I can be
time to pay attention
to the signs
to the sky
as long as you bring the matches
I will burn
MY DAD
a soft brown teddy bear and a
green crocheted blanket
are the only real things
in this hospital room
oh yeah
my dad’s in the bed
but the man in that bed
has never been real
not to me
he never said . . .
never looked at me that way . . .
never touched me lightly . . .
I got his toughness.
he taught me how to smoke and drink
and play cards and stay out all night.
I got his temper.
he taught me anger and how to put on the gloves and smack
without damaging my hands
when he’s dead
I want my bear and my blanket
back
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