Category: Poetry

Words, the blood of poets. Slick, wet, hot, pouring over the page in a curtain of sultry satin red.

Choked.

choked

on my words
placed
so delicately
upon your tongue

you are taught
to respect
prohibitions
by force

“what will you do
when my reach is so long
I can pluck your sins
like over-ripe cherries?”

your answer
is no answer at all
because you cannot speak
with my words
filling
and burning
your mouth

never enough

There is not enough of you.

Not enough of the special brand of mischief
your eyes promise.

Not enough of your promiscuous laugh
that has made itself so comfortably at home in my heart.

Not enough of your crooked smile,
or the map of your thighs in the morning
a lazy but confident promise
if only
I will stay in bed.

There is not enough of you.

so I stole your shadow from a sunny day
to shade me while I read

I convinced your reflection to follow me home
and watch me as I write.

There is not enough of you,
so I will write you into a line,
a poem
a book
a dream.

sins of the map-maker

I know your curves.
I learned them the best way possible.
by touch and by taste.
with time and with hunger.
deliberate and slow.
swift and sure.

I mapped the contours of your body with intent and your curves remember me well; strong hands and parted lips left landmarks.

I left my poetry between your thighs and my scent upon your skin.

you are known, but not discovered; there are secrets left in the cleft of your thighs, and the rising rhythm of your breathe.

I know your curves.

But I want to know them better.