you want him stitched into your skin. you want the blood in your mouth to taste like his. you never want him to stop gnawing at you; leaving marks with his teeth. you want to look at your bones and see the impression of him.

natasza stark
how to love a god, part iii

Love

June 22, 2020

I am still in love with her. Not a day breaks but that I think of her, and when the dogwood turns red in winter I stretch out my hands and imagine her hair. I am in love with her, not a fantasy or a myth or a creature of my own making. Her. A person who is not me.

Jeanette Winterson
The passion

sipping honey in the sunlight with your hand in mine sounds so divine. when can we start? i’d love to just wrap my legs around your waist, stare into your honey brown eyes and kiss your freckled cheeks. will you take me away from this rotting place, and take me to the places you know? will you walk with me in the sunlight and serenade me while we picnic? your voice sends shivers down my spine and sends chills on my skin. waiting for the sunset is how it feels to be waiting for you while you are away. i wait all day and it is still not as spectacular as your precious kiss. will you wait for me?

Lauren Garland
Sunshine love romance

K

June 11, 2020

In the summer, girls paid her
in cigarettes and hickeys
to shave their heads
on her front porch.

I sat behind her in poetry class
and when she wrote the naked lady
tattooed on her arm writhed.
I tried to name the shade of her hair —
so black it was blue.

She loved Bukowski. Hated herself
in the most beautiful ways — pierced
five or six holes in her face.

One day in class she stole my phone,
punched her number in and saved her name — “k”.
She owned 1/26 of the alphabet.

I read her messages over and over.
They were the first poems.
They were cave paintings.
They were my own palms.

The only time she ever called was 3AM.
I WANT TO KISS YOU RIGHT NOW said her whiskey.
Don’t worry, that’s just something
she tells new friends said her roommate, sober,
snatching the phone.

The world had never given me
the language to say Come close or Yes or I don’t know
how to touch you, let me touch you — so I danced
with a boy that night. He was tall, I think.

I slept beside him, not touching, forgot
his name. But I remembered her hair,
bruise coloured. How the dye left a spot
behind her ear. How it ruined nothing
but me.

Megan Falley

Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon’s eyelid

later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping
elsewhere

Tonight I think
no poetry
will serve

Syntax of rendition:

verb pilots the plane
adverb modifies action

verb force – feeds noun
submerges the subject
noun is choking
verb   disgraced   goes on doing

now diagram the sentence

Adrienne Rich

The Nuisance

May 16, 2020

I am an inconvenient woman.
I’d be more useful as a pencil sharpener or an adding
machine.
I do not love you the way I love Mother Jones or the surf
coming in
or my pussycats or a good piece of steak.
I love the sun prickly on the black stubble of your cheek.
I love you wandering floppy making scarecrows of
despair.
I love you when you are discussing changes in the class
structure
and I’m not supposed to, and it crowds my eyes
and jams my ears and burns in the tips of my fingers.

I am an inconvenient woman.
You might trade me in on a sheepdog or a llama.
You might trade me in for a yak.
They are faithful and demand only straw.
They make good overcoats.
They never call you up on the telephone.

I love you with my arms and my legs
and my brains and my cunt and my unseemly history.
I want to tell you about when I was ten and it thundered.
I want you to kiss the crosshatched remains of my burn.
I want to read you poems about drowning myself
laid like eggs without shells at fifteen under Shelly’s wings.
I want you to read my old loverletters.

I want you to want me
as directly and simply and variously
as a cup of hot coffee.
To want to, to have to, to miss what can’t have room to
happen.
I carry my love for you
around with me like teeth
and I am starving.

Marge Piercy

His Love By: Sunset

April 23, 2020

He sits
All alone

Waiting
For his love

Never would he guess
He would fall for him

A beautiful man
As bright as the sun

Like a flower
With no time to fade

Fluffy hair
Bouncing in the wind

What I wouldn’t do
To have him as mine

Over time they fell
Falling deeper as time went on

Finally ending
This romantic fairy tale

Sunset Meadows

serves up my heart

March 22, 2020

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time. They have to. It’s that kind of story.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams

Homesick

January 11, 2020

When we love, when we tell ourselves we do,
we are pining for first love, somewhen,
before we thought of wanting it. When we rearrange
the room we end up living in, we are looking
for first light, the arrangement of light,
that time, before we knew to call it light.

Or talk of music, when we say
we cannot talk of it, but play again
C major, A flat minor, we are straining
for first sound, what we heard once,
then, in lost chords, wordless languages.

What country do we come from? This one?
The one where the sun burns
when we have night? The one
the moon chills; elsewhere, possible?

Why is our love imperfect,
music only echo of itself,
the light wrong?

We scratch in dust with sticks,
dying of homesickness
for when, where, what.

Carol Ann Duffy

own me in lust

December 26, 2019

I could feel his whole body trying to claim me, want me, own me in lust, and it made me feel so valuable and wanted. As I was bent over the table, I felt like I was the world to him, and he could think of nothing else,  could feel nothing else:  he was consumed with my body, dedicated to exploring my female sexual power and energy, and his desperate hitting of me with the belt felt like he would rather die, than be without the chance to connect with me in sex.

Fiona Thrust
Naked and Sexual