Weaving the Light in His Dream with Your Shadow

featured in the poetry forum September 2, 2012  :: 0 comments

Place a tulip bulb under your pillow
and sleep on it till you dream of lovemaking.
Then plant it in five handfuls of soil
gathered from beneath your lover’s footprints.
Collect raindrops that have dripped
from the branches of a cherry tree.
Pour that rainwater over the bulb through a ring
that you wear or have worn in the past saying,
“I ask water to touch his lips with my thirst,
I ask fire to weave the light in his dreams with my shadow,
I ask earth to grind his nakedness against mine like an avalanche,
I ask air to tempt him with the whispered kiss of my perfume.”
When the tulip blossoms, crush the flower
against your breasts and nape and wrists and hips.
He will find you waiting at midnight
mistaking your body for his bedspread,
your hair for his mirror,
your hands for his cup,
and your smile for his moonlight.

editors note:

If this had been the method for Mary, she wouldn’t have been nearly so contrary. – mh

Lovemaking

featured in the poetry forum June 25, 2012  :: 0 comments

Aroused during lovemaking,
Trobriand Islanders snap their teeth
and nip at their lover’s nose and chin.
As their passion mounts,
they bite cheeks and lips
wildly until they bleed.
Then at the moment of orgasm,
they chew off each others eyelashes.

editors note:

Instead of wine and roses, these girls respond to cotton balls and triple antibiotic ointment – a real turn-on! – mh

ZIPPERS

featured in the poetry forum June 22, 2011  :: 0 comments

Colorless as rain,
a zipper either grins
like a crowbar in a cash box
or sneers like a blackboard
waiting for equations sleeping in chalk.

Sometimes zippers open with the squeal
of an ambulance siren, other times
with the slow cracking of paint
chipping from a canvas.

The triumph of surprise
no one can ever anticipate
comes cramped beneath a zipper.

editors note:

With so much to fear in the dark, it’s nice to know there are things—even though we don’t know how they look what shades of the spectrum comprise the colors they’re made of—are there to love us… or there for us to love it. – tm