Love. It's what all the poets are writing about, yeah? Here are some poems, from me to you, a little gift... but don't expect much else, we've barely even met.
This is how I could come
to like the taste of coffee:
on his tongue, lips, breath.
Glass of water
I've started keeping a glass of water by my bedside,
on Fridays and Saturdays.
I never drink from it.
It's for him, on the nights he wakes up coughing, rolls
over, takes a sip.
I loosen my grip, but he roles back in,
closer than before.
Hand curled over waist, feet nestled together,
It's sweaty and cramped and the blankets get tangled
and he snores and I drool -
but I can't sleep right without it.
So the glass stays by my bedside on Mondays and
I'm ready to stop thinking about you.
His hair tie around my wrist,
cold feet curled into mine,
and devious grin,
make for a much better
I call this the goddess dress
because when I put it on and down a can of Okanagon
I become just that:
the goddess of starry-night petunias,
brown-eyed susans, new guinea impatiens,
warm summer nights and good books.
It's green and it's long and it cost me $2.50 at Frenchie's,
and it caresses every curve,
accentuates my red hair and pale skin.
And my lover, when he sees me in it,
looks at me like he always does,
a sharp grin and bright eyes.