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Sexy Poems, Take 2

These were previously posted as “Sorta Sexy Poems,” but for unknown technological reasons the formatting went berserk when I changed one of the graphic images on it–so I’m re-posting them. Notice I’ve dropped the “Sorta.” That’s due to reader feedback, for which I am grateful.


After I covered
your entire body with kisses
I waited in the steamy darkness
for your snores
then crept silently away
to rub my tongue with soap.



Full Moon in August

The moon and I had syncopated rhythm:
monthly in her fullness I bled.
You arrived at my door

a wild mare going west
in your camper with your dog
and your cocktail party music.

Women aren’t supposed to live like this
I thought, my eyes widening
to encompass your vision.

It was a full moon in August.
You were on your way somewhereMoon blue
coming from somewhere else.
When I saw you in your camper
I thought
Women do not live like this.

The night waxed and waned
and we drank of the moon.
Remember, you coaxed,
delving into hidden spaces.

Yes, I had forgotten
the tales that fingers tell
forgotten to remember
and forgot that I forgot
that women do live
like this.


For My Ex-Lover’s Lover

I see what she sees in you:
the curve of your cheek
is almost more than I can bear.

Sometimes when we talk
you touch my shoulder gently
and I feel it in the places
where she hungers.

I know her weaknesses
the way she likes to hold you
how her face looks to you
from below.

I see your limbs entangled loosely
and the movements that arouse her,
feel her hot and pulsing in your handUnknown

as if I lie between you
instead of by myself
remembering the curve
of your cheek.

Sometimes I wonder
on whose account I’m jealous.



The Marrying Maiden

In the front room
of the cabin in the woods
the red-headed wizard
advises the commoners
with signs and omens
while in the back room
of the cabin in the woods
the concubine keeps busy
with this & that.

The night before
the wizard played his horn
with others of his musical caliber
while in the back room
the concubine danced
in frenzied secrecy.



White gloves in spring.
Leather gloves in fall.
Woolen mittens in winter.

Keep hands soft
Keep hands warm

Rubber gloves for washing dishes.
Cotton gloves for dyeing hair.
Oven mitts for hot pots.

Keep hands safe
Keep hands clean

Glove rhymes with love:
Rub down with a velvet glove/
You’re not sick, you’re just in love.

The cops wear
big yellow gloves
and dentists wear latex
and doctors
and people who kiss in the night.

We are sheathing hands and cocks.
Our cunts are dammed.
But the heart:
to protect
the heart?

Your gloved hand enters me.
My gloved hand moves clumsily
around your cock.
Protected fingers speak
an ancient language.

The rubber
the latex
the avoidance of tongues
cannot stem the flow of passion.

I need a glove for my heart:
it breaks the same when you leavegloves
as if we’d touched skin to skin.
my heart
still breaks.



One response »

  1. If you hadn’t left a short comment on my funeral jot, I wouldn’t have found this, not this soon anyway. Adding to my blogroll.

    I’m glad we found each other!–MS

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