Summer Suppers

You kiss me like the scent of lilies

Stargazed petals, magenta lips

White hushes your edges

 

I kiss you like the sun dreaming

Brushing the curves of your mouth

Curling your lips between mine

 

I brim over the horizon, over you

Amber-flows into clouds, into you

 

And you give me requited stars

In the shape of freckles on blushed cheeks

Wild gold silks about you

 

We kiss how summer suppers

Evening. Weaving its way through

Murmurous leaves with tongues of air

 

The scent of lilies permeates

A glowing meadow of rays

As our lips form crescents

Against the weight of night

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Twelve-fingered Witch

My mind is a twelve-fingered witch

rearranging air into flames—

learning innumerable routes

to your caves filled with sizzled sin.

 

My dreaming is disaligned, pinned

in a shadeless tree, lonely and

misunderstood. I bite the wind

like a black god of the desert—

 

and volts of blue light snap my woods

out of sight like a white prophet.

Your waved hair silks my ribs—gets hold

of my roots. I found your nude thigh

 

in haunted villages, ashamed

where the night suppers the last days.  

La diosa española en San Andrés, Cholula

Sometimes she nuzzles her head in my breasts

“I just want to make home here” she says

 

Sometimes she grabs my ass

“You move like a fuckin queen!”

her hands caress my hips as we dance

salsa, figure 8 figure, I figure she wants

me. But she’s fuckin the Jewish guy from

Colorado.  “You need some flavor in

your life,” I tell her while we walk down

Camino Real, dodging Cholula’s construction.  

“Oh, but he’s cute.”

She grabs my waist to hug me and smiles.

 

Sometimes she lays her head on my hip

bone while Noah, the white guy, lays his

head in her lap.  “I’m your favorite American, right?”

I ask.  “Yes, but Noah’s really cool too.  He has a

guitar.”

“So what, I have poetry.”

“I write songs which are kind of like poetry.”

I don’t argue. He has a point.

I call him “suckypants” from now on.

The three of us lie in the grass by the lake

bathing in the sun and I imagine her without

clothes lying between my legs.  

 

Sometimes she quotes poetry and calls me

“Beauty and Truth”

She majors in literature. “I fuckin love

Emily Dickinson!” she tells me over and over.

“I am Nobody! Who are you?

Are you Nobody too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell!” she grabs my arm

tight with conviction.

 

Sometimes I share my poetry with her

ay, no hay más para darte  

because I am lost and no quiero

que me encuentres, solo que te quedes

dentro de mí con tus árboles, cálidos

y dulces, como el verano se cae

en las hojas de carmesí y ambarina.

“Joder, Lucrecia, I fuckin love it.”

 

And sometimes she invites me over.

Her eyes are bright mahogany and brimming.

She has a completely withered red

rose in a Ciel water bottle sin agua

on the desk by her bed. She has raven black

sheets. I move her backpack out the way and

sit. She talks to her plants outside her window

She has a plant with yellow blossoms in the shape

of tiny purses that remind her of her abuela.

“They’re so fuckin dry!” We’re in the center

of Mexico, in the mountains, the air

is arid and the sun is stark, I tell her.

 

Sometimes she reads me Mexican poetry

in her Spanish accent.

“I fuckin love this poem.”

She takes out her bag of tobacco to roll

her own cigarette but she’s out of paper.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck”

She digs and digs in her purse and pulls out

a pre-rolled cigarette and lights it. She blows

the smoke away from me as she reads

 

Hay un tigre en la casa

huele la sangre aun a través del vidrio

percibe el miedo desde la cocina

The smoke swirls and I lean in to take

it all in. Her accent. Her tongue snaking

through her teeth. Her essence. Lilith.

Los crisoles de saliva emponzoñada

de sus fauces.

The burning tobacco fragrances fresh

light and inviting

Ni siquiera lo huelo

para que no me mate.

I think of the pink tiger in this room.

Hay un inmenso tigre encerrado

en todo eso.

I imagine if I close the door what could take

place.  Her voz excites me, I wonder how

she moans. Noah knows. Suckypants.

Que tanto y tanto amor

y tanto vuelo entre unos cuerpos

The cigarette has burnt out now

but the scent lingers on her lips

tanto imposible amor inexpresable,

nos vuelva tontos, monos sin sentido.

I fantasize her cuerpecito vainilla against

the raven sheets, unshaven and full woman

I dream of her contrasting with my bronze, tangled

Es esto… lo que duele.

 

Sometimes she tells me about her French ex-boyfriend

and I tell her about a recent Brazilian ex-lover.

“These people, they’re explosions in our lives

atomic bombs and we’re left with sizzled skin,

flames still brewing us deep blue,” I say.

She lends me an anthology of Mexican poets,

Sometimes she reads a poem from her journal.

“Do you do collaborations?” I want her

Spanish to swirl with my English.

“No, I don’t think about it.” She looks down, shrugs

and throws the journal on her bed.

 

Sometimes she takes me to lectures for literature majors.

Most times I just want to fuck her.