Feast of the First Harvest

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 |