Doing Laundry

Another night, stretched out
in emptiness. My fingers play
with memories scattered across the cool pillow
where you rested.
Sheets washed with hope
of rinsing away the lingering scent of you
– of us –
an intimate reminder of what was
no longer
clings to the fabric.

revised/reworked 6/12/15


Within His Arms

She imagines her hem hiked to her hips,
arms pinned to her sides by bra-straps pulled down,
bent forward, he moves behind her, touching
with delicate intimacy – just there.

She feels his breath on her back, nape of neck.
Lips and tongue taste the musk, drinking her in
as she, with eyes closed, needs no sight to see
his face, no sound to hear his voice whisper.

The small of her back a perfect contour
in which to press his belly, flesh to flesh.
Warm hands cup her breasts, pull gently, arouse,
ready her for him as only he can.

Sex is making love is sex between them;
curled within his arms, she finds she is home.


Standing in the Middle of the Room

Avoiding touchy-feely-painful parts,
concentration centers on physical.
We dance alongside our love, as always,
aiming to profess – confess undying
passion we rarely ever exhibit
anymore. When the mood strikes, thunder-clap
sex emerges lightning fast – rain washes
scents of it from our bodies, no longer
still entangled in sheet, panting passion,
murmuring words of wonder; we leave out
emotions standing pink-elephant-esque
in the middle of the room, not wanting
to spoil one second with reality
all our differences – money, family, friends.


During Sex

She closes her eyes during sex;
not, as he imagines, to block out
but to let in – the self
confidence stolen
years ago.

History cannot repeat
when she does not
look into his eyes
when she refuses
to remember
to risk
seeing that same look.

Once, eyes wide, she knew
he was not with her
was not in her.
Half-whispered names
no longer sounded
like hers,
two syllables
too similar –
were they so much alike
he could not tell
the difference
even in their names?

She cannot close
her ears
so she closes her eyes during sex,
allows herself to feel
passion and desire
to believe
they are for her
this time.


Aching to Hold On

You write politics and I drink the wine;
my thoughts on sex while you pontificate.
The right-wrong of the world surrounds me –
your ideas swirl in my wine-soaked mind.

You talk and I am still thinking of sex…
of the long, lean body of that man
two tables over – blond brown locks rakish
across his eyes, the kind of blue I could
drowned in, forgetting until the morning
we occupy this place on different planes.

My body is aged with life, waist thickened
with experience; thighs parted in birth
and pleasure, my arms ache to hold on to
where we have been… and where we want to go.



Making love is inelegant; bodies
twisted around, contorted in pleasure
unaware, ignorant of aesthetics.
Graceful or awkward, their movements become
second-nature and unimportant
to the expression of their desire,
this blend of carnal and spiritual
hungers, blinds lovers to the outside world.

Too close to be a simple fuck, they feel
connected; it is no longer just sex
or procreation – it’s an expression
of need and want coupled with emotion.

He pulls her hair, tilts her head back, as she
whispers “I love you”, her eyes wide open.


March 26, 2011

Eyes Wide Open
Cool palms cup heated flesh, desire’s warmth
spiraling down her body. Familiar
tug of want pulls her hands to forbidden
pleasure – releases needs pent-up inside
for too long. She does not close her eyes now.
Once hidden, shuttered under lashes, she
allowed imagination to control
her visions, paint her partner’s picture.
She’s no longer afraid of memories,
wants to see her lover’s face, hear his voice.
It is no secret she craves life’s passions;
revels in the sensation – nakedness,
body pressed to body, becoming one;
eyes wide open, she is fascinated.