Archive for love

My Lover Leaves for the Weekend

Posted in Poetry with tags , on October 2, 2009 by bodhitsattva

He touched me so much
I don’t know my own fingers.
For a few days, I like that he’s gone.
I haven’t soaked since he left.
Deep and oval, my tub is built for two.
When I sit between his legs,
my back against his chest,
we are a perfect fit.

A crinkled, floating hair
sneaks underneath my fingernail
and I’m reminded of his grazing fingers,
idling in thatches, lazing in the brush.
If I cut the grass my oasis will run dry
and the animals will go extinct.

I split at my fault line and burrow
to the center of the earth,
imagining he’s here:
wet dreadlocks like slugs
slide across my shoulders
as he turns his head to kiss
the other side of my neck;
no bites, no blood: thick kisses
made slick with orchid oil.
My slow sigh exhales his image,
fogging over the mirror.
I’ve drenched the empty
bathroom in his memory.
By the time he comes back,
it will have evaporated.

Love Tanka

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on September 1, 2009 by bodhitsattva

He said he loved me;
I laughed hysterically,
as if we lay in
a field of poppies instead
of indoors on floral sheets.

Morganne and I at the Saturday Morning Farmer’s Market

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on November 4, 2008 by bodhitsattva

As we walk the aisles of onions,
broccoli, strawberries, and cherries,
I like to think we’re lovers picking
the reddest, most plump
tomatoes at the market for
Saturday night aphrodisiac dinner
(oysters and a bisque).
In front of the vendors I treat
her like my lover: I hold her bags
as she searches for buried money
under bushels of fresh spinach,
then help her pick the best batch
of raspberries-last week’s were moldy.
At home, we have male lovers.

One drunken night she looked at me
like a frightened five-year-old,
stringy blonde bangs a little wet from
sweating out the liquor; a hallucination
in her ear whispered it wanted her dead.
She said to me: You’re the only one that’s real
as her boyfriend frowned like a father
(half worry, half disregard) and put her to bed.

There was a day in Blanchard Park
when we were at the center of the sun,
a perfect egg of light circled by humming
cicada trees; we could of fallen
in love, but we were in love with men
who couldn’t love us back.

On Saturday morning we shop together,
an arranged marriage; she pays
cash for the food and I charge the coffee
as spring rain speckles our scalps and clothes;
it comes down harder as we sling full burlap bags
across our shoulders. On the way to the car, I
eye passers-by through wet lashes, saying:
don’t try; she’s mine.

Motherhood

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on September 26, 2008 by bodhitsattva

I should never have loved you
like a mother   or wanted

to take the sweets away:
You’ll ruin

your dinner     or grocery shopped
and cleaned house with only

two hands   rubber gloves   sponges
or charged trips we took

to credit cards with small limits:
that Valentine’s

motel    no pool
netted cheap black lingerie    stilettos

disabled fire alarm   pizza   pills
I was too young for motherhood

too much drinking   too many
drugs   not enough eating    sleeping

too much sleeping    not enough laughing
unfinished homework    driving

to school    home from school
seldom fucking    it took

cocaine to get a sensuous touch
to my muff    the amphetamines

kept your cock soft    as if
having sex with the canal

you came through    attached to
the womb where you incubated

I gave birth to a six-foot baby
I’m barely       five feet

I held you like her
your arms     a noose

your limbs    limp
too weak to stand

I carried you all the way.