Michele

Stealing Sweet Apple Pears

We could not walk away from the wet mouthed joy
of the palm-sized apple-pears
stolen at a speed of one hundred steps an hour
from the tree in Mr. Willie’s backyard

       each bite to come

  worth the bare-foot procession over spurned alley trash
and fallen branches petrified against the barren, rootless earth

each of our shirt-baskets
full to the wide-eyed brim with yellow-green and crimson delight

our mouths already full of last summer’s remembrance:
zest and tang and pith and running

we could not

not even when he stood watching
his ratty bathrobe tied into a knot
the same patterned knot that tied his Viet-damned soul
tied it so tightly that this battle for pears
was his only connection to the world still outside of him

tied and ragged
ragged and red and yellowed and bruised
as much like his wounds on the battleground
torn into strips and shreds and being pulled away from him

like the skin of his plump, backyard fruit
between our teeth

gathered between the supple lips of our youth

pulled and suckled away from the meat and the seed

each bite
each crimson and yellow-green oddest oval globe
taking our teeth like first and last
lovers

each fruit
licking back against our tongues
lapping back into the canyon of our bite
claiming that moment of fulfillment
cajoling our senses toward the next summer’s delight
creating the answers to the questions of pleasure

each of those fruits
come so graciously year after year to that tree
come so tauntingly aromatic on the first day winds
come so wickedly olive-to-sanguine
and finally to wasted, fallen,  saffron fodder for the night creature’s to taste

We
We could not walk away from the wet mouthed joy
of the palm-sized apple-pears
dangling so much like desire
swaying in the lilting southern summer siroccos
like radio music from air-condition less cars
and the sweet, sweet flask of bay rum spilled onto the barber’s smock
and the yelping night hounds trapped, swollen in mid-hump out back of the fence
and
the from heaven falling
out of Mr. Willie’s apple-pear tree
having never landed and bounced against the earth

rather,
dangling
flying
circling and spinning and pendulant from a branch
my face turned crimson
my pants ripped into a knotted gash
and Mr. Willie
coming finally through the screen door
knife
in hand


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Here are a few things to share

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Opening Reception in Ohio

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               Be Mused

 

Be my Muse today
remind me that every beautiful mouth is not kissed
is not warmed by the light of a lover’s gaze
is not yet quivering with the anticipation of nightfall and homecoming

let me listen to your plea
say again that thing about going unnoticed
that thing about the cool wind against your blouse
that thing about your breast rising and falling to a remembrance of love

I’m listening through warm tears
and the ragged, slow beating of my own heart
listening and watching the hair across my body raise to catch the breeze
listening and counting the selfish days from my life
when I held back loving and kissing and warmth
and gazing

Be my Muse today
I’ll close my eyes and let you     tell me     that you are dancing
let you    tell me   that your lips are pursed
let you       call the breezes into surrender around us
let you      warm the blinded air with the warmth of your approach
let you    calm the reaching out hairs from  both of  us
with every desperately unleashed kiss that has been  holding your heart in place

 

 


TypeyWitherSpecialStack

https://jasmardis.files.wordpress.com/2019/11/typeywitherspecialstack.m4a

today
let me not guess at you
let me call your curves and softest places
traits
let me claim them legendary
let me say     they mark the best of you
the restless remembrances of reasons to return to you
to pick you free of the crowd    to claim your perfection
and high-step hackney beside you
like a Pinscher full of knowing what others just admire

just once
I’d like to measure you against time
to have your wither and nape and neck
laid out against the oceans of hours spent adoring you
to mark the place on my chest where you reach in heels
at tip toe   and flat-footed rest
I already know that your length exceeds your height
that you stretch longer than the ideas I have for you
longer and taller every day than all the unused glances
missing you  in your splendor    a Special  a Best  a Wonder
nipping at my exposed bearded throat

and
bait me with a scent on your palm
and I will tilt and turn and trot  to your command
I will surrender to the stillness at your smile
I will stiffen and flex   against an imagined breeze
I will say absolutely , yes,   to your stare  into my eyes
Yes  and Yes and all the Yes’ stacked on and on and on
form me in all of your memories and wants and ways
leave me to the moment of adoration and judgment
and I swear  I will come back for more

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