Meeting your body’s needs

I want bread.

We watch the dough rise,

lapping at

spilling over the edges of the bowl.



Fingers and palms wrapped,

buried in the flesh of the dough.

Folding. Stretching. Bending.

Pressing deeply, firmly.


Let it rise. Wait. Bake.


Your tan fingers

wrapped around my white hips,

squeezing so the flesh rises up around your fingers.

Leaving indentations.



We scorch our fingers

on the bread

too hot from the oven.

I lick the melted butter

running down the back of your hand.


evening’s scarlet eye
captivates my thoughts – pulls them
always beyond the horizon

you beckon me –
red-light, come-hither,
come-back to bed

gibbous moon
inviting exploration
of the darkened edge

faint moonlit sheen
on your hip’s rounded curve –
cleft hidden in shadows

midnight cirrus wisps
scuttle across the sky’s expanse
suddenly visible, then gone

I taste your soft sighs
escaping – like us, a singularity
vaporizing into the night – see literary studies:
“an item or event triggered by an item that results in divergent narratives,
in which the singularity alters the new timeline
away from a prior “default” state”.


limbs bare in the morning light
sketched charcoal
as they stretch against
the blush of the waking horizon
Louie croons softly

“It’s a wonderful world”
your lips whisper
against the nape of my neck
your hand gently cups my breast
as vestiges of warm dreams slip away

bottled lust, or a jar of jam

Making jam, so tedious –
gathering the berries,
standing at the stove, stirring, stirring, stirring
patience until the gritty crystals dissolve
under the spoon, to be poured into vessels,
still too dangerously hot,
to settle, cool,store
until sunshine is desperately needed.

Later, I spread thickly
on a piece of dry wheat toast –
a treasure to be savored
in dead of winter, long apart from
when the berries we gathered
were ripened lushly on the vine;

slipping the black caps from their stalk,
fragrant, juices cupped in the palm of my hand
before running to the elbow
to be imbibed from my sweat-salt flesh
as if sipping fine wine.

I know store-bought jam is easily purchased; but
your lips, tongue against my forearm
lapping the almost innocence,
the taste of silver pail lingering on your hand,
before drawing in a breath deeply:
the pungent blackberries,
the crushed summer grasses,
and forever the heady scent of you.