Heat

Night air sticky under full-moon haze,
and she’s in heat.
She feels it coming,
writhes and thrashes in her bed –
No need to prowl for meat tonight,
Her victim
          will crawl
                     to her.

Her instincts serve her well;
There’s a stirring just outside
and heavy lids metamorphose into bedroom eyes
when she poises her regal body to investigate.
She opens up enough to see who’s stumbled to her den,
But she’s measured in her movements –
the stumbling are wounded,
and a wounded catch so fresh with fear, is liable to run.

Ahhhh, he’s just a boy
who’s come to her
so blissfully aware that she intends
to tear at his body
       — deep –
to leave him trembling
               — hard –
and watch him gasping
                              – gone.

Well, here’s to an easy hunt.

Teeth bared as faces meet and heads rear back,
Exposing necks as each inhales the other’s scent.
A few seconds of pawing,
Slinking circles around one another,
Licking, biting
Go for the neck, and you have the kill.

He’s down.

This is Treason

 

 

Sometimes, war is silent.
And he advances in the night to hide his crimes.
His teenage consort — stoic, young, and good
At keeping secrets — is unwilling,
But adrenaline confounds before she can distinguish friend
From foe.
Surprise attacks disarm as he takes
Mountains first, then valley, and insists
Her pounding heart and quickened breath
Bespeak the thrill of conquest.
These are missions that he can’t complete alone.
Against her flesh, an unmistakable contour
Threatens as he orders her to come;
Only cowards walk away, she tells herself,
And tries to prove she’s strong enough
To hold the line unaided.  No one wants to be discovered
So exposed.

But then,
He draws his sword and stares her down.
His weapon at her throat, knees on her chest,
An unexpected standoff,
While screaming eyes beg why? for lips that wouldn’t dare
Pronounce their protest;
If she parted them, she’d gag.
I’m weak, he pleads,
Then binds her arms
And reprimands the prisoner:  you know we have to stop.
He charges south along the fertile warzone of
Her body, slides a hand into the quiver, and she arches
Like a bow about to snap.
Once more, she tries to swing a weak defense –
He grabs her wrist and laughs…
Too dazed to be convinced she ever really fought at all,
She shuts her eyes, demoralized by guilt, and time
Suspends

….for years.

A heavy hand is placed over her mouth to snuff resistance
  –  Shhhh!
Defiant legs are trembling as they strain to hold the distance –
Then muffled cries subside
As she goes numb.
She turns her head.
The war is lost.
And a smile
Surveys the spoils as betrayal burns her face.
He compensates her efforts with a devastating kiss.

We’re accomplices, he whispers.
See what you make me do?
Take our secret to the grave because

She’d kill you, if she knew.

Consider this my contribution for Women’s History Month.  But remember, men are violated every day as well.  The song I chose to accompany this piece, “El duelo” (“The Duel”), is a chilling acoustic duet between Chilean group La Ley (male vocals by Beto Cuevas) and Mexican singer Ely Guerra, about intimate violence, confusion, and pain.  It set the mood for my writing process this time but has actually been a favorite song since high school.

But on to an issue more important than music.  For you, I wish two things — first, that you find this poem completely unrelatable.  Truly, I would love for everyone to be able to read this and think, “I don’t get it.”  But if, instead, you hear yourself saying “Never again,” then I wish, by God, that you may be right.

Absolve yourself.  Peace.



– Regrettably, I’m still on a work-induced hiatus from WordPress, but I felt that these were words that needed to be spoken, and spoken now. I look forward to returning in coming weeks and catching up on everyone’s inspiring writing.

Royal Flush

Seconds from the truth
And inches from the prize,
Your eyes
Scan for some indication
That you’re playing this just right.
Well, my guarded pair
Is no match for a cunning hand,
And I’m about to lose my shirt.
Demand
Whatever leaves you satisfied.
I’ll let you hide
Your royal flush.
This rush
Is not a lust for kings or queens or cash.
I only ever aim to raise the stakes,
See what the other player might reveal;
A woman always knows the cards
A man tries to conceal.

Moistened lips and drum of anxious fingers,
Question lingers:
Bluffing?

Nonsense!
Because either way, you win.

You grin,
I fold,
The pot is yours.
All bets are off,
We seal a deal with you on top.

A table’s wasted on a game of cards.

Worship — Sex vs. Spirit

At the confluence of souls,
I shed the vestments that encumber.
This rite is the communion of the universal faith.
Time transcended,
Space suspended,
The laying on of reverent hands
Revives the fading forms
That part their lips,
Drink from the cup,
And genuflect in passionate surrender,
Professing their devotion
For this incarnation’s gift.

Mystics,
Leading lives of passion, panting
Fervent, heated prayers,
Would say such worship is misguided,
For these idols, fallen in rapture,
Are energy,
A vital force,
A pulse,
Poured into veins that throb with lust
To assert command
Over lives they’ll never truly own.

Performing paradise, entwined,
We forsake the here and now
And find that immortality
Is never-ending transfiguration,
And ecstasy,
A temporary means to a timeless end.

Anima — Sex vs. Spirit

In a fog of fallibility,
Time and space divide,
While sex and spirit somehow form the haze
That happens
To be nothing more
Than life.
But, flawed and finite,
Unenlightened,
Here I stand –
Joyfully divested of my reason,
Relinquished to my humanity –
And I worship at the altar of your bed.

I’ll keep seeking what’s eternal
In a temporary self,
Rejoicing at the forever life-force surge
In your movement through the temple,
Where I fall to my knees in surrender of my spirit
Before the votive
That you light with borrowed breath,
The prayers you beg with lover’s tongue,
And the desperate pilgrimage you endeavor –
Aching, spent, and fallen
With fleeting flesh,
A sacrificial lamb unto your own,
In this transcendental, timeless rite
Of ever-entangling, oft-repeated selves.

Manifesto

You can’t tame me.
These running legs have served me well.
Unruly curls in disarray,
Bare toes connecting with the earth,
I laugh too loud, play too hard,
And dance for no reason at all.
I’m not much for pretense or formality;
Every day is a flag to be captured,
And while I can strategize with the best of them,
Uncover every secret hideout –
While never letting on that you’ve been found –
I’d rather blaze my trail straight to the heart.

Sure, I stop and smell the flowers,
And I’ll gladly detour for a tumble in the brush,
But I don’t waste time on maps,
And the dangerous curves of this country I inhabit
Are surely beyond your control.

I only realized I was a woman
When they saw me for what I never was before,
And a thousand kisses,
Caresses,
And whispers in the darkest of the dark
Rained over me and washed clean all the
Grass stains of my youth.
But this refining
Only skimmed the satin surface;
I may dress the part now,
And you’d never find a single scar,
But I’d win every neighborhood game!
Because, now, I can run without running
And look without lifting my eyes.

Inside, those flames they fanned
Cannot be doused.
I’m a slow burn,
Alight with a deeper life
Than many women are willing to live,
And you’ll see it set ablaze
Through the window of these laughing eyes
When you grip these defiant hips,
Sink into these wild waves of hair,
And breathe over this now-unbroken skin.

In your hands, I am no tomboy;
This is the secret, feminine force incarnate. 
Nor am I a damsel in distress
Waiting to be rescued by the sword;
I can vanquish villains and
Escape from dungeons by myself,
But I’ll still join you
For this grand, uncharted adventure.

What I am is a child
Inviting you to play in the mud again,
Dance in the rain,
Stop watching the clock!
Dig through the sands of time,
And yell at the top of your lungs
For the sheer joy of living without limits.
I’m also a sage who already knows your answer.

You can’t tame me.
But why would you try?
I’m an animal out of the cage
Whose spirit has been distilled,
Drop by simmering drop,
Into the purest, primal essence of humanity.

 

Now, tell me…
What are you?

 

So, this is 20yearsfromnow!  I forgot that I’d written a self-portrait back in July, but I stumbled upon it again tonight and thought I’d share it here; it seemed fitting to segue into my tomboy manifesto from the childhood memories recently set out in “Woodworking.”  In fact….this, I suppose, is the result of the ”adventure” (referenced therein) that I would go on to have years after waking up from that crazy dream. 

Oral Fixation

Your name caramelizes
Like sugar on my tongue,
And air ignites with the
Sweet fire of cinnamon
As I hear you pray the syllables of my own.
Tongue collecting secret salt,
Mouth parts to steal a bit of milk,
Smile stretches to expose the teasing teeth
That bite into sinewy flesh
As muscles stretch and bone holds firm.
Your careful hand extends
To claim a prize
Of dripping fruit
Inside a cavern of exquisite thrills
While just before me lies
Allure of choicest loin to satiate
The deepest reaches
Of humid hunger.
But vanilla fingers slide past instead
To skim a handful of savory nuts –
Then sigh escapes as
Hazelnut eyes beg,
And untamed waves of honey hair
That cover coconut delights
Spill over chest
And abdomen
And thighs
As cherry lips descend
To savor juice
Of melting meat.

Vagabondage

I wasn’t so innocent when,
Sleeplessly rapt in the throes of
A virgin
Wanderlust,
I cried out to you
On instinct
From worlds away.

A shameless amateur
In the art of survival,
I confessed my desperate hunger
For the instant when you,
Laid bare of your own volition,
Would thrust me
Past the point of no return so that,
Indelibly marked by your tempestuous
Yesterday,
I could secure tomorrow’s consummate
Salvation.

Recklessly announcing my
Coming,
I pleaded that you impress upon
Your wide-eyed initiate
What only the chosen learn
And that you reveal that
Naked, primal self
I longed to know
With an abandon bordering on the
Predestined.

I came to you in the night,
A pilgrim unwittingly sacrificing
The flesh
To obtain transfiguration through
Your touch,
And you,
Wasting not a minute–
Though I fell damned by their abundance–
Anointed me with unbridled
Authenticity
As there in the fervor of my devotion,
You forced yourself
Ravenously into my
Soul.

Taken down by a spear you shot
Through centuries,
I was pinned
Like all the others who pray
In your bed
That with morning will
Come
Mercy.
Your brazen lust
Drove me to the edge
Of reason when,
Over and over,
You threw me
Breathless
To my knees
In a violent embrace that
My iron will
Refused to unbind.

My God,
You literally shook the ground
Beneath me!
And you rose to meet me at every
Unforgettable peak
Where you taught me
How hard
I could take it,
Satisfied
No less than I had asked for,
And provoked
Far more than I had ever expected.

My love, in truth,
It was not a novitiate but a mystic
Who designed the wager
Against her own self-preservation
That allowed you to
Find me inside,
Crush down upon me ever
Harder,
And press deeper

….Deeper!

Deeper….
Into my memory.

Because writing is sexy!

Pull back the cover

I invite you

To take your pen

To this book

Those ink-stained hands

Should spread

The pages

Your pen

Can leave its strokes within.

I give you a question mark

With all its mystery

Its curves

Rounding downward to

That singularly provocative point

Where you can write your answer

With graceful plunges below the lines,

Playful dashes,

Teasing ellipses,

Decisive dots,

Languid loops,

And all the artful

Punctuation of your choosing.

What will you write for me?

Your pen is

Welcome to play

I will be your muse and

This book

Can be…

An adventure!

Of swashbuckling vagabonds and secret hideouts,

Buried treasure unearthed after some perilous voyage—

Or a poem

Of timeless verse and soul-born cadence,

So exquisite in its candor and instinctive to express—

Maybe an epic

Whose ancient threads and exotic places are

Woven together with the touch of your words to this page—

Or even, perhaps, a comedy

Of clumsy, carefree heroes who meet under some…

Ridiculous circumstance!  And smile at their flaws.

Now bring your pen

To the satin canvas I am ceding

Here between the covers.

Your barrel may empty

When the pages are full.

 

I dedicate this to the inventors of writing, whose names are forever lost to history but whose gift makes them immortal, and to each and every writer since — all of whom, of course, are sexy! Writing is a passionate act of creation that strips you bare every time. (And the reader too!)

If you found yourself inspired by this poem, please go out and buy a book — support the art! And if you found yourself inspired in the, ahem, *other* way, just be safe.