Birthday Morning...some time ago

Woke with her in my arms, her lashes flashing, chocolate swirling eyes.  "You are the Charmed Ones," the woman said prophetically.  She & I, always on the edge of rocking out destiny.  Her hair falling, her skin softening on mine.  My lips slip against her forehead.  Still haven't opened my eyes, but I feel the morning light seeping into our pile of flesh & feathers.

Orange Peels

A piece of my breath is still jumping across river rocks.  Some liquid spray of sunshine threatens to leap from my belly and escape these velvet curtains into the night.
 
We basked under the Sycamore trees.  I didn't even notice the battlewounds of the boulder scramble.  These thighs, these hands, they love the granite, every crevice and slick slant into water below.  And his shoulders glistened & his feet gripped the edges.  And the others laughed, voices tumbling down the canyon.  Soon enough, we gathered under the rustling leaves & orange peels fell from the flesh.  A dusty white moon in azure sky rewarded our efforts.  The waterfall's mist mingled with my skin's sweat.  And I felt glad. 

Vagrant Angel

Lovely days.  Making licorice and ginger tinctures, a little drumming, a lot of wrestling and more laughter than I can remember.  He read me Mary Oliver poems & I admired the water filtration system on his van cooler.  A drunken, wise Creole spirit -  wandering from Bakersfield, CA - espoused the beauty of a good woman under the street lamp.  His eyes wide & bloodshot, his smile brightly weathered & knowing, like a vagrant angel reminding the Everydayers of the sacred essentials.  "If I had a woman like that, I'd follow her wherever she go.  I'd make sure I be by her side, boy.  Don't let a love like that slip you by."  We laughed.  What a romantic.  My mind can't follow that path again yet, but I reveled in every second of his passion pulpit.

Rubble

An embrace,
rainbow prisms on every cell wall,
structures
alighting on bliss,
dissolving with a slight kiss on the palm,
tumbling into dust in sunshine;
the rubble glitters golden.
 

Dust & Congas

Shall I enjoy the missing while I can still remember the tastes & smells & softness in the air between us? Will it fade? Will eight years of touch become a dust-covered epic in the attic of my mind? Can lives so-entwined unravel like that? They do. We have only the moment. Everything else is dead. Is that why I keep memories so close to my heart, why I visit them like old friends not to be left unattended for too long? The mind is so immense. So much lost in the corridors. Yet the heart can hardly tell waking from dreaming & these sensate memories of ripened affection and acceptance feel more real than a disjunct dinner conversation. Shall I be grateful that real love is close enough to mourn?

Have I always cried like this? At ease in my heart, some piece of Loss stirring. Soft light. My feet on the couch. Music. Black cat sleepily sinking into the wooden floor. The congas across the room know my joy will turn. They're not worried.

Olive Tree & Oleanders

Last night Matthew & I looked at pictures in the car under a street lamp. One year ago. Literally dancing in the rain (and later with the help of a garden hose). Clothes transparent, sticking to skin and thighs. Clumps of hair streaking faces. Dancing like dogs shaking off a swim; all captured in glossy. Those lovers gone now. On our way to see a period romance at Elcon Theater. I needed snapshots of someone else's glossies. "A sumptuous film" indeed. I'm always drawn to eyes so full and silent they need never speak. And I always wonder what they're saying. And what they're seeing in me. It's rare that I come across eyes like that, even in gelatin.

And so I couldn't sleep. Instead, I went to the Olive Tree. 2AM and hanging in the branches. Silent. Street lamp clicking on again, off again. Like you and I. And I told myself, "This is so rich here alone. Why give it away?" Just then a black cat crossed under. It didn't see me crouching, lounging up high. "Tsss." It stopped, looked at me startled and then bound up the trunk, ears & cheeks rubbing my legs, nuzzling my hands. We teased at each other a bit until he could tell I'd lost interest. He returned to the earth below. I was a little sad to see him go.

Then a 70s Bronco with huge tires and a lift pulled up at the edge of the park, engine roaring. Two women - stumbling and loud - clamored out. And like Maeve straddling the river, pulled down their pants between the Oleanders in a stream of laughter, profanity and piss. I could hear the puddles gushing, see the legs squatting. Me unnoticed, reclaiming the silence of deep space as they thundered off in deep bass.

Strawberry Fingertips

The strawberry skins were a bit leathery. Too long in the fridge, but still sweet enough for a smoothie. My most recent addiction: blended fruit. Singular delicacies deconstructed, with a dash of cinnamon. Always served best in a wine glass; the one I bought for 50 cents at Value Village. As the last puddle of liquid blossom streams from the bottom, I encourage it into my goblet, sliding  two fingers along the inside of the glass pitcher to the lip. Then lick my fingers. Everytime. Everytime I slide my fingertips along that last moment. And then rinse the pitcher clean, swishing the water to catch strawberry seeds. Those seeds love to linger. They don't know there will be a next time.

...it needs the metaphor of the body... 

Triste the Clown initiates Liquid Amber