Yes:
Let the wax raise
green statues, let the honey
drip in infinite tongues, let the ocean be a big comb
and the Earth a tunic of flowers, let the World
be a cascade, magnificent hair, unceasing
growth of Beedom.
– Pablo Neruda –
my body is a cage…
My skin is soft but what part of me isn’t (besides the scars, I mean)? My skin, a kind of map, a version of me you choose to trace and buy into. At least for a time. I imagine your fingers trace me because, like me, they are curious about the route we are on and like me, wonder what sights we will see along the way.
We seek direction even when we say we prefer to be lost.
My body secretly warms to your touch; we pretend there is nowhere else you’d rather be. And when we smile, it is not because anything has settled, it is simpler than all that; it is because something grows – and the mystery of our meeting, and sharing, and fatally flawed offerings fill us to spite our tenderest selves.
Yet, in the abundance of hope, in the sanctuary of faith, I speak words full of sacred. I speak the fullness of myself. I utter shape that carves the path leading straight to my heart.
And we dance.
And we dance.
And we dance.
The word comes from the body. When you speak, breath reunites thought with flesh. And with that comes a whole new awareness of what might be true. Or not.
Or not.
– Lola Moi –
gone are the birds that were our summer guests…
The crickets are raucous; wild for a reason, I guess.
The wind feels like… courage.
(Like that, only simpler.)
The fire pit smoulders; my hair smells of ash.
Tonite.
A season comes to pass framed by silky memories
and eventual, hopeful strains for some near-distant night.
You. Me. This.
We spread ourselves wide to the horizon that cradles our future –
the velvet expanse of our yet-to-be-known.
Awash in the restlessness of almost-goneness
I wish I had more time
grateful I can leave some of all that was behind.
A fruition of time that on this eve
blossoms and wilts.
Leaving is bittersweet.
It always is.
L
– Lola Moi –
the way we live now (or, in search of lost time)…
Tonight, the moon is sombre though you wouldn’t know it;
it nestles its backside into the sky’s lap, each buck-and-grind a falling star.
Nights like this make one ache in mysterious ways.
A man once fingered me in a dark parking lot. His fingers were long and clever. He growled his pleasure in my ear and bit my lip. When he made me cum, my head fell back with air clusters catching in my throat. His kisses were coos. Tears streamed down my face; he said they tasted sweet, like stardust.
Constellations were the First Stories; we are all descended from such brilliance. We are the dreams of ancestors come true. When we look into another’s eyes, we give up the secret of what we most need – the Darkness holds it until the wind takes it up… and away, back to its first breath.
We are the ache of life’s mysterious ways.
The moon is restless as you lick my skin with the tip of your cock.
Tonight, the darkness holds us.
We are not alone.
– Lola Moi –
stumbling is not falling…
reach deep
through the muck of time
sing
proclaim the past your friend
the present your lover
eat what is to come until you are full
change the lightbulb
not for what your next step might be
but for the room you have just entered
see the marvel that is space-to-be-filled
good night, john boy…
A blue moon catcalls some stars dancing over by Orion.
My hands slip under the band of my panties,
Looking for yours
Against the smooth mound that is my own wet heat.
The crickets outside my window creak “You did it. You did it.”
A beration mingled with cheer, topped with a dollop of ‘just the facts, ma’am.’
On my tummy, my hips swish to the circadian rhythms of the night.
The frogs purr with me as I mount my memories
The fan whirrs, whisking heat only to turn back and find it has returned
I whisper your name – a prayer
Supplication and divination for
Veiled is the night.
– Lola Moi –
carrots are not french fries…
I haven’t yet…
but I like thinking about
it.
Your voice.
I look forward to that.
I haven’t for awhile…
but I want to
with you.
I look forward to your…
I ache to make you
to hear you…
I ache-with-arch to cum with you.
Fuck.
Listen to me.
I haven’t yet but I need to.
L
L
– Lola Moi –
la vie en rose…
You think I don’t know
when you ask me to roll over
lift spread fold my legs
and shift my moans to the side
that you are finding the fit
you have with her
with me.
You think I don’t cum
thinking about her sweet, tight cunt
engorged with your thick, eager cock
as you lift spread fold her legs
shift her to the side
and overoverover fill her
with your love.
– Lola Moi –
the auberge at bay…
You walk ahead of me in the hallway
look over your shoulder and
reach for me
with your left hand.
I have to skip to catch up
to your long legs.
Your reach is unexpected
and the way your eyes find me
in the moment before
I take your hand
my heart skips a beat
too.
For some reason
these tiny moments
the way you ask for me
and the way
you hold me as we walk
(if I may be so bold)
delight
and soothe me
reassure me
even satiate me
in the way that one
discovers themselves content
with exactly the right dessert.
All this in spite of
the pull
and ease
of my acceptance
all this despite
one simple truth:
I don’t want you to leave
your absence is
it is
the very last thing
I want.
You enter the elevator
gorgeous broad back to me
I whisper
your name
I tuck you into my secrets
as I wish
and want you
to reach for me again
and take me
guide me
on our way to bed
naked
safe
ready.
As the doors of the elevator pause
I reach for you
inside myself
I want to drink deeply
and allow the hunger
to be seen
I want your nose against
my skin
but not like that time before.
This time will be different.
Because with me
you can be most like yourself
it is my gift to you
no hiding
apologies unnecessary
even forbidden
as you remember
the heat you are
you will forget
how or why you ever said “no.”
You will hear your power
harmonize and crescendo
with mine
my moans
and cries.
You will delight like I do in
our sweet – nest
you will believe
you will reach
and embrace the beauty
that you are
that I already see in you.
For the briefest of moments
you will understand why
I can’t resist you.
And we will kiss.
Even as your back turns
even as the doors
seal away your smile
for who knows how long
(time and space have now
turned against me)
I stand there
breathless
already missing you.
And all you did
was reach for me
in the way you do
but it seems
that was enough
to find me.
– Lola Moi –
gate c22…
At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.
Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching–
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.
But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after–if she beat you or left you or
you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.
– Ellen Bass –