And, speaking of Lammas, feast of the first fruits, here's another sexy love poem, or lovely sex poem, depending upon your point of view, about First Fruits:
First Fruits
I was twenty-eight when we met.
All these years in America ,
land of the exotic and still I had
not tasted the fruits of the land.
You found for us a room.
Private and quiet, our
first floor palace with its old, marble
fireplace and glass above the mantle.
Once a week we would meet – save
and scrounge from each paycheck
to make ends meet. It was necessary
to life, to go on breathing.
I would always go in first.
My cotton dress clinging in the heat,
I was all tits and ass - a sweet peach
embarrassed by want. How
I remember the light of that
white room. The antique ivory,
and darkening of the paint as the
sun slipped fast across the summer sky.
Always we brought fruit. A fresh
bag of cherries, pears, apples and more,
a bottle of sparkling cider which later,
we would devour. Lying as two gods
exhausted, our tawny skin burnished
with sweat.
It was the time I first tasted
a real Anjou pear, perfumed and delicate.
My first ever mango, how the flavor of it
exploded clean inside my mouth until
I ate through to the core, bone white
with a thin down of filament.
by sadi ranson-polizzotti |
No comments:
Post a Comment