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She Hates Numbers

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Honey Upon My Tongue, a poem

illustration honey upon my tongue
Honey Upon My Tongue, a poem

Purple silk, soft against my skin, phone pressed to my ear like a shell,
I’m listening for the sounds of you, the sounds of the sea in your veins,
I want to hear your voice, sweet, low, soft as the silk against my skin.

I imagine you in your bed, stretched out, as comfortable against the mattress
as you would be against my body… you’re talking, and I’m listening like
it’s the first time… oh, but it is the first time. After you, nothing will be

the same, nothing will ever taste or smell or sound the way it used to.
There was the world before you, and now it feels flat and dead and dull,
as if I can hardly see how I moved through all the endless days, waiting…

waiting to hear this, your good voice, your sweet words, the sound of your
breath, the shape of your mouth… and your lips call to me like a wolf
howls at the moon, pulling my soul out of my body, stopping the clock,

making my whole self nothing but this overwhelming hunger. It is dark,
the middle of the night, the hour when the blackness turns to velvet,
when the stars shine like diamond chips in the dark blanket of the sky.

You are far away, but your voice is gentle in my bed with me. The image
of your body glows in my head, everything is in my head, everything is
possible, I may live forever. I want to please you. By pleasing you, I please

myself. Your joy is mine, I am greedy for it. And oh, the hunger. Inside me
is a magnet, collapsing the space between us. I am sucking you through wires…
and if I were there – do you wish I were there? I’d press my own shaking electric

fingers, my palms, upon your skin, first this place, then that place, searching,
reaching, touching each square inch of you, tracing your limbs with my
tongue’s thoughtless purpose; touching, rubbing, pushing, pulling, mouth open,

warm, mouth wet, soft, lips fiery, trembling, my head intoxicated with charting
and caressing the unknown territory of your sweet flesh. First, your wise,
funny mouth; your strong, stubborn teeth; your mischievous, wanton tongue.

I draw the good scent of your skin into my body for nourishment, breathing
you again and again, my chest rising, then falling, over and over, air drawn fast,
then faster; for you; because of you; simply to delight you. Then comes

the time of your neck, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers; my face an open
flower kissing you all over; my arms anchoring your warm, solid body;
my hair touching your chest, trailing slowly down your torso, your waist,

your hips, your loins, covering you like a loosely woven silk curtain.
For you; because of you; simply to delight you. All the while I caress you
with my lips, my tongue, my fingers, I tug your body closer to mine.

We feel each other’s weight, heat, firmness. As I move over you, your back
arches like a drawn bow; my lips are sweet arrows stinging; I caress your thighs,
your belly, your ass; I am greedy; I am hungry; I want this, simply to delight you.

I will say honey upon my tongue is like ashes after tasting you;
I will say I have lost myself and do not ever want to find my way home;
will say I have well-pleased the gods who created me, for this moment

and forever. I have a fire deep inside my body and will burn through
everything between us, mountains, walls, tables, chairs, clothes; just
to reach you; simply to delight you. Someday, I would like your bedroom

to be ringed with heaps of fragrant white flowers — frangipani, gardenia,
honeysuckle, hyacinth, jasmine, lily of the valley, magnolia, narcissus, rose.
The thick, sweet scent will make you relaxed, sleepy, and perhaps then

you will know how easy it is to surrender….

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sous la langue (under tongue), by nicole brossard

illustration sous la langue

I did not write this, but it has long been something that I thought worth reading…

Author:  Nicole Brossard, (translated by Susanne de Lotbiniere-Harwood).


The body salivates, yet nothing is foreseen, not the wealth of touching, nor the furtive slowness, the exact frenzy of mouths.  Nothing is foreseen, yet at eye level is where the body first touches everything, without foreseeing the naked skin, and it needs saying, without foreseeing the softness of skin that will be naked even before the mouth signals the state of the world.

Nothing here to suggest that at the slightest touch the gaze already falters wanting already to foresee such a rapprochement.  Nothing is foreseen other than the breathing, the sounds resounding flesh to flesh.  Does she frictional she fluvial she essential does she, in the all-embracing touch that rounds the breasts, love the mouths’ soft roundness or the effect undressing her?  Nothing is foreseen yet at body’s uttermost the skin will image the body for without image there is nothing at body’s uttermost images shatter the state of the world.

You cannot foresee so suddenly leaning towards a face and wanting to lick the soul’s whole body till the gaze sparks with furies and yieldings.  You cannot foresee the body’s being swept into the infinity of curves, of pulsings, every time the body surges you cannot see the image, the hand touching the nape of the neck, the tongue parting the hairs, the knees trembling, the arms from such desire encircling the body like a universe.  Desire is all you see.  You cannot foresee the image, the bursts of laughter, the screams and the tears.  The image is trembling, mute, polyphonic.  Does she frictional she fluvial she essential does she all along her body love the bite, the sound waves, does she love the state of the world in the blaze of flesh to flesh as seconds flow by silken salty cyprin.

You cannot foresee if the words arousing her are vulgar, ancient or foreign or if it is the whole sentence that attracts her and quickens in her a desire like a scent of the embrace, a way of feeling her body as truly ready for everything.  Nothing is foreseen yet the mouth of bodies commoving aroused by the words by instinct finds the image that arouses.

You cannot foresee if the state of the world will topple over with you in the flavour and surging motion tongues.  Nothing is foreseen yet the shirt is half-open, the panties barely away from the cleft and yet the closed lids and yet the inner eyes are all astir from feeling the tender in the fingers.  You cannot foresee if the fingers there will stay, motionless, perfect, for a long while yet, if the middle finger will move O ever so slightly on the little pearl, if the hand will open into a star shape at the very moment when the softness of her cheek, when her breath at the very moment when the other woman’s whole body will weigh so heavily that the book where it rests gives way under the hand, the hand, at the very moment when balance will become precarious and thighs will multiply like orchids, you cannot foresee if the fingers will penetrate, if they’ll forever absorb our fragrance in the image’s continuous movement.

Nothing is foreseen for we do not know what becomes of the image of the state of the world when the patience of mouths lays being bare.  You cannot foresee from among the waves the one the unfurling one the split second that will image in the narrative of bodies whirling at the speed of the image.

You cannot foresee how the tongue wraps round the clitoris to lift the body and move it cell by cell into a realm unreal.

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la cubana, a poem (for miriam)

illustration la cubana bay of pigsillustration la cubana

La Cubana
(for Miriam)

You wanted to be a ballerina;
you still have the feet to prove it.
Beautifully ugly — the large indelible corns

a badge of honor you wear snug
inside your stoic three-inch heels.
Even now, you move like a dancer;

that curious, hesitant grace making you
nearly transparent, your fingernails resembling
the vague glimmer of fallen sequins

against dusty wood. I first saw you
cloaked in heavy tweed, your blouse
buttoned like a nun’s, ponderous glasses

weighting your cheeks; a lyric ode
to fine print and words of limitation.
From across the room you smiled.

You have grown into your new profession…
even hair charmingly askew, you remind me
of money, of large parcels of land,

of failed invasions. I can see
how your grandfather whirled that quiet girl
from Boston into his life. When your own father

came back, two years late, from the Bay of Pigs,
you didn’t seem to know him anymore; his blue eyes
forever magnified by loss, his young wife grown bold at last,

they both still played their parts in the undeclared war.
Perhaps the real reason you let go
the lambskin, the pink satin, the sharp-edged slant

of ribbons against buoyant muscle,
was your brother. When he went away,
you had to be the son in that circular way

all Latins have. And yet, now that I finally see you
holding your small stubborn daughter,
I am reminded of the heroic way your tears fall,

winding mascara down with them, stubbornly
clinging to your neck until they simply
disappear. Forget the earplugs, the tranquilizers,

the last minute histrionics — it wasn’t until
you kissed me on the cheek that I truly mourned
my own mother. No one else could bestow

that strange catalyst. Your line of time
admittedly different, yet as familiar
as a vision. Can you possibly understand how,

in that one unending moment, you became
my sister, my lover, my own cool lips,
my own interminably carried broken dream?

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