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he was here…

she is here

She had no need to ask why he had come.
She knew as certainly as if he had told her
that he was here to be where she was.

– Leo Tolstoy –

here is where we are

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we come to flesh…

We come to flesh
You and I
In this, the Gathering of Desire
Under cover of prussian blue.
The velvet sky
Bemoans all that we have gone without
But now find in the other.

We come to flesh
You and I
As these, my supplicant folds do crease
Lubricious with ache and moan.
The fawning moonlight
Sips our secrets until drunk without end
Again and again we die upon the other.

– Lola Moi –

by Simon Bolz

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There is a moment…

This

There is a moment
just before
you touch me
enter me
when we call a truce with time
and gasp
into that moment of
divine breath
every secret
opens and blossoms
inside that still beat
. . .
a promise about to happen

– by Lola Moi – 

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when a man…

walks into a room…

he brings his whole life with him. He has a million reasons for being anywhere, just ask him. If you listen, he’ll tell you how he got there. How he forgot where he was going, and that he woke up. If you listen, he’ll tell you about the time he thought he was an angel or dreamt of being perfect. And then he’ll smile with wisdom, content that he realized the world isn’t perfect. We’re flawed, because we want so much more. We’re ruined, because we get these things, and wish for what we had.

– Don Draper, Mad Men –

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the cinnamon peeler’s wife…

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
– your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

– Michael Ondaatje –