Tell me how you pass the hours.
That slanted smile,
does it hide shackles of pride
(I have mine too).
You are my obsession,
undulating sensations that
can’t be restrained.
What I know of you
I have learned through osmosis,
the taste of ozone, like breathing air.
In worldly dreams I am wearing leather
waiting for you in a Parisian cafe.
Is there shame in what we are compelled to do? tell me
art by Michael Garmash
From my window a sliver of moon casts a haze over the water and I listen to the rush of soft waves. Those creatures beneath the depths, do they sleep, dream? If parted do they grieve? Down the street I can see lights from an all night store, a man stands behind the counter. Cautiously he slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a bottle. A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront. I imagine them harming the storekeeper. Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway, they laugh and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of birds of prey that swoop down with jagged talons hungry for butchery. I watch closely in case I need to call out a warning but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real, maybe everything I see and hear is all in my head. I lose focus on my outside world and the burn of you stings relentlessly just below the surface. I want to sleep forever not give a damn about you.
When I spread my wings
I can feel the pull of freedom.
I spread them wide and trail
my shadow the way birds do.
Your hands are elegant thieves
and your words a web of lies
that shine right through.
What is real or an illusion
in this desperate nest of chaos
where I found you?
When the veil falls apart and
the daylight slivers in I can see
the slant of sky where you slipped in.
Winter does not empathize
with withered branches
or displaced birds fleeing waves of
of frozen breath.
Her howling wind is a laugh out loud and
she hasn’t the grace to cover her mouth.
A tease of holly and evergreen
flicker at the curve of billowed thighs,
glistening folds of hallowed mounds
drift in other worldly sighs
ensnared in her exquisite binds.
art by Karol Bak
Browsing through souvenirs
I am reminded of you.
The door to the past swings open
releasing a sleek eel of memories
where I am nothing or at best
some trembling leaf lost on a summer breeze.
Do you think of me?
See me in constellations pressed against the sky,
hear me in the surge of tide, slick sealions riding white horses?
I would seek comfort in the moon but I am so trivial
and he is taken by the stars.
In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake
flicking the skin of your thigh,
curling around the catch in my throat.
It is god and has named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers,
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy
A Sheer scarf covers the
lamp on the night stand
slivers of moon light slip though
the French doors
reflecting off walls of burgundy
and egg shell limbs caught
in loose binds.
She is the red of womanhood
her breasts alert gazelles
guileless eyes are the shade of currency
her mind has become his confessional
and there is no sin grave enough
When I was just a shy girl
and you a blonde haired boy
we raced through wheat fields chasing.
Suddenly serious your adventurous
eyes made me shiver and your hands
stroked my body for no apparent reason.
I longed for your touch anytime and
kissed you open mouthed without permission.
I adored your mock anger when I hid away
and made you find me and the way you quickly
looked away when caught staring.
Autumn threw its shadow on sprouting
wheat where we lay naked smooth and wet.
Now I always knock before I enter your
reading room and you softly close your book
and pull me to you fierce, tender,
Art by Rob Heffernan