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I feel your breath all the way down my spine, your exhale defines my soul
completely. Put the baby in his bassinet saying hush, soul, hush. I'm here. See your Christmas lights, see? I place my hand on the width of his chest, calming him again and again, back into The heavy arms of sleep, but when he finds himself alone, he wakes and cries anew. This does not deter us. You slip off your Sanskrit bracelet, lean over me to put it down. I take your forearm into my mouth; there is no part of you I would not put my tongue to. Your hands on my flat stomach turn me into a moth, make my muscles stammer in confusion, Uncertain as to whether they can hold the pleasure. You contour me with convincing strokes. I do not exist in places until suddenly, your palm is there, heat turning to energy. Then I am butter, melting into chocolate on the stove. I am the blossoming mock orange bush, Spicy and sweet, I am the teenage girl at the bakery counter, her tongue pierced with a silver ball. You are the tide coming over me, taking me down, the death and the sweet escape. You are my husband and I am shy with you, You are the smell of sandalwood, The man I have seen around town, thick hair and an earring. You have managed to dissolve your own self until I am disappearing inside of you, Unable to hesitate at the edge of the vortex, smooth release into free fall. The awakening of my body after so long a sleep, tumbling in the sheets As the baby gives up crying, frees my voice from a long winter. No words, but The range of alto, contralto, soprano, the pain, the longing, the months our bodies Have spent apart contract the muscles of my thighs, and my breath hits your ear. I squeeze your wet hair until drops push out from between my fingers. We don't care about the noise we make in the sleeping house, whether it will wake the baby, Scare the fish or excite the neighbors. We are creating the ritual that feels so forbidden, That marries us again and fashions a husband and a wife, two lovers, two strangers to each other. This is life, I say to myself, as much as the baby searching at my breast, as much as the ants Invading the lunch box, as much as the computer screen seizing in a fit of delusion, Lying with your arms wrapped around me, my body sweet and sore, way past content, Your breath sending shivers down my neck. This is as real as the best illusion gets. June 4, 1997 |
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Premiere Issue (Issue #1), June, 1998 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.