Tinder Box

By all means;
kiss me tinderly, mother-bird.
for too long now there's been
a tree growing in me
so thirsty for last season's rain
that its leaves are all yellowed
and its boughs are growing withered.
Place your scavenged twigs
into its deepest crooks.
Weave them loosely as you like.
Line them with fruit peels
and fragrant petals.
Make a nest for yourself
just here
where the wind can push all it likes.
You'll be comfortably preening your feathers
through most every storm.

And should some day an hurricane blow,
one of those cleansing squalls
who's winds and rains
make the ground into porridge
and uproot that dry old tree;
then I'll cleave to the heart
of the fallen trunk
and from the wood there I'll make a box
where I can place what's left of
     --your gathered twigs
     --your fragrant petals
     --your cherished fruit peels.
A box where I can keep
your tinder kisses.

     Have I ever told you
     how much your touch is like
     striking flint?

Why I don't call everyday

[Kindred has Left the Building by Kindred Pasana]

Because she has eyes
the color of greetings.

Because she has eyes
that are just the right distance apart,
but are never distant. 

Because she has lips
that are thin and smooth,
and in their movement they turn me
into baby birds:
Exuberant and chirping and thriving
off the things that come from her mouth.

Because she has legs suitable for traveling
and set my mind wandering whenever I see them.

Because she has a neck
which I would pay to leave kisses upon daily.

Because she has hair
that thrives on a lack of discipline.

Because she has skin
the same color and texture as the warmth
that I keep within me whenever our knees touch
and neither of us moves away.

Because she has a beauty
that is made luminescent by heat
and becomes more oppressive than the humidity.
A beauty
like Remedios.

Because some days I see her
and can't bring myself to look away.

The Things We Could Do

We could make love, you and I.
We've already become intimate friends
and at no loss to virtue or distance
between Me lips
and She lips.
Already we know what the other
needs, wants, hopes for.
Already I've stolen grasps
at the slender bone at your waist
and the softer flesh of a thigh.
Already we know too little
not to want to know more.
Not to want to know how the rest
of one's skin feels under the other's
fingers.  Or lips.  Or appreciative eyes.
Already, I've thought about it
enough times to see it all.
Already I've seen so much
That I want to see more.

We could do all that.
We could consume one another.
Savor flesh like fruit
Until every ounce of juice
splashes brightly on our tongues
Or drips languorously
down our chins,
staining our favorite shirts.
We could giggle when anyone asked.
We could smile into the morning sun
walk straight, but slow.  Be there, but not now.
As if to say: What stain?

I could hold you in my mouth,
carry the taste of you with me
like hard candy.
And no one would have to know.
You could dance on my tongue.
You could dance.  Just for me.

Oh, the things we could do.