Want

September 17, 2019

She wants a house full of cups and the ghosts
of last century’s lesbians; I want a spotless
apartment, a fast computer. She wants a woodstove,
three cords of ash, an axe; I want
a clean gas flame. She wants a row of jars:
oats, coriander, thick green oil;
I want nothing to store. She wants pomanders,
linens, baby quilts, scrapbooks. She wants Wellesley
reunions. I want gleaming floorboards, the river’s
reflection. She wants shrimp and sweat and salt;
she wants chocolate. I want a raku bowl,
steam rising from rice. She wants goats,
chickens, children. Feeding and weeping. I want
wind from the river freshening cleared rooms.
She wants birthdays, theatres, flags, peonies.
I want words like lasers. She wants a mother’s
tenderness. Touch ancient as the river.
I want a woman’s wit swift as a fox.
She’s in her city, meeting
her deadline; I’m in my mill village out late
with the dog, listening to the pinging wind bells, thinking
of the twelve years of wanting, apart and together.
We’ve kissed all weekend; we want
to drive the hundred miles and try it again.

Joan Larkin

I am naked

September 1, 2019

I am naked
Without skin and without bone
Enveloped with your desires
Clinging to my Body
You drink all my blood
Until dawn.

Bites

September 1, 2019

Overwhelmed with desire
my kisses become bites
on your neck and shoulders –

when you fuck a poem

August 31, 2019

her ink is wrapped around
your limbs like
tattoos of who is
written into you

stains stuck to the page
then transferred to your skin
stanzas scattered
across the floor
lines divided

creating sounds no linguist
has ever heard

your screams will be
songs with no shape

let her taste you solid
as a consonant
let her make you soft
as a vowel

with your mouth wide open
swallow every syllable

drip like coffee
when the morning’s long
and the writing won’t stop

spill a little
then soak
until you are two pages
pressed together

pin her by the corners and
recline between her lines

when she moans it will sound like
“you’re my title now”

Gowri Koneswaran

seven times sweet

August 31, 2019

Ah, ah, thy beauty! like a beast it bites,
Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites.
Ah sweet, and sweet again, and seven times sweet,
The paces and the pauses of thy feet!
Ah sweeter than all sleep or summer air
The fallen fillets fragrant from thine hair!

Algernon Charles Swinburne
Anactoria

until you break

August 31, 2019

Yes, I’ll do this until you break – not break like a china doll roughly handled, but like the waves on a moonlit beach.

P

keep everything

August 31, 2019

I possess pieces of you. I keep them under my skin against my soul. With other lovers, there was nothing, an emptiness. But from you I keep everything. Always I keep everything.

P

Burnt distance

August 29, 2019


 Take me
As in an endless fight
Invaded me
Put your hands on me
Earn my trust
Burn the distances
Between you and me

the land of dreams

August 27, 2019

in the land of dead dreams all shout — “yes, yes! no, no! more, more! stop this, stop that! do this, do that! do the fandango, do the bunny hop.

in the land of dead dreams there are shameful body aromas and different customized body styles.

in the land of dead dreams, everyone is equal, until someone punches
the clock enough to get a gold star, then they are allowed to keep punching the clock until they die.

in the land of dead dreams, hope is a commodity exchanged for desire exchanged for good will exchanged for a thousand free minutes on AOL.

in the land of dead dreams everything counts; three strikes—your out, second in line, a one-in a million-in-one, 7.8 % on all non-food items, $10.00 co-pay, 6% annual interest compounded daily by the hour or by the minute, each and every second of each and every day the clock ticks and your heart beats faster and faster . . . there’s something in the basement . . . the lights don’t work. . . . there is a gurgling sound . . . you know you must go into the darkness of the basement, alone . . . . .

in the land of dead dreams kingdoms are constructed on or in excrement, cigars, and telescope steam.

in the land of dead dreams . . . no that’s somewhere else.

in the land of dead dreams you have different clothes and special foods for every different occasion, and all the streets are the same name with the same gas station gourmet coffee gift taco shop every three blocks.

in the land of dead dreams, there is “the new white meat” for brighterwhiter bones and bigger badder teeth.

in the land of dead dreams, to get to the super bowl is what life is all about . . . that, and a good cold one, ay?

in the land of dead dreams there are endless options all based on one true-false questionnaire given at birth.

Kari Edwards

Under my dress

August 26, 2019

Incredible desire to feel his kisses on my neck while his hands search under my blue skirt with its yellow flowers.