heat

these are the days
of damp hair and mussed sheets,
the intoxication of scent and sound
as they seep into my skin

every gesture is heavy,
moving slowly through the
thickened air that
catches our words and holds them still
so that we can pause and truly understand them

the tips of my fingers push gently across
the plane of your nails
and up your forearm with its constantly
surprising amount of fur

and slowly I learn what it is to be
completely with someone--
no distractions.
only this.

Knitting

Another family gathering with Helen and Rob.

He straightens his tie in the mirror and surveys the couches and tables and plates of carefully arranged hors d'oeuvres. Everything is ready. She already knows that everything is ready. She sits quietly in her favorite chair, with the careworn seat and armrests. An unobtrusive pile of yarn rests against her toes as the needles twist and spin in her small hands.

The men and women and children tightly wrapped in their snowsuits push in from the cold, all varying degrees of fashionable in their lateness. They shoulder their way into the room, and position themselves as best as they can in front of the cheese plates. As more bodies enter, the room warms. Rob waves his arms and gestures warmly, sharing and receiving stories with the finesse of a skilled entertainer. He skirts about the room on nimble toes, moving from group to group, dazzling all. Helen watches with sharp eyes and a soft smile over her slowly growing tea cozy.

She is no diva. She does not need the focus of all those eyes and aimless gestures. Her movement, like her speech, is small and calculated. Certainly, when the friends and family say their goodbyes and shuffle out, leaving only slushy little puddles behind them, they will warmly discuss how much fun that Rob is, and how splendid a host.

"But that Helen," they say, "She's sharp as a tack."

bodies.

This was meant to be my writing, but I could never say it better than him.

i like my body
e.e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

the boy from tanzania

shoes much too big
hang loosely onto his little feet,
the laces wrapped around his ankles.

the village is small,
and the very large sneakers make it hard for him
to join in the dancing,

but why should it bother him?

he is six and a half years old
(practically a man already)
he has almost all of his teeth

and most of the other children
cut their calloused feet
as they join the circle
dark arms and pale palms
raised to the sun.

not time.

I remember your body perfectly--
your thick, smooth hands
the wideness of your ribs
the hairs on your chest that left their
curled imprint on my cheek--

your voice, too,
as we lay with the light crawling slowly
out your window
and you sang in a soft, husky tremor
that made even your floor lamp
lean in to listen more closely--
the intonation of your speech,
with laughter pulsing behind nearly
every word

but, somehow,
your face is only a flash in my memory
one instant, there is your smile
then I bring out your eyes,
the ears that you won't let me kiss
the widow's peak that worries you--

but these bits don't fit together,
and I am at a loss
trying to remember your face.

the night of the storm

driving through the pebbles of rain
hurled from the raging sky,
a tree stands illuminated by the
electricity
in the air--

the silhouette folds into itself,
the branches bent
like the posture of an old man
who has borne the heft of loneliness
for far too many years.

and, in a moment the length of a bee's stinger,
it vanished again--
melting into the surrounding expanse
of darkness.

10 straight hours of painting later

there's a specific kind of ache
that seeps into the sinews and bones
after a day of real labor.

and the engulfing plush of the easy chair
feels so much better than ever before,
the ice water like wine--

and you slip into the confusion
of pleasure and pain,
before it all comes again--

7am. sharp.

finally.

I've been away from this for way too long. There are a lot of days to make up for. I'll get on that soon. This one is by no means complete, but I've done what I can with it for now. What's left is to let it rest, be on it's own for a while, gather up all the meaning that other people will give it (that I may or may not intend), and finally, edit it.

--

getting lost

the movement of the trees around me
as they shifted in the breeze
and pushed outwards into their larger selves
pounded into my consciousness--
kept me completely
there.

when I think about it,
I can still feel your
fingers
snaking slowly around my thigh--
your fingertips across my skin like rain

in that tiny wink of time
(with you)
I was,
for the first time I can remember,
living through every sense and more
more more more more more