by Greta Cabrel
(09/17/08)
Storm After Drought
The outsides of the windows wet with welcome rain.
The insides of my thighs wet with waiting for you.
Letter
For you, writing is a ritual:
your favorite pen
and a pad of Japanese stationery.
Under the top sheet, you slip
a pencil board: it guards against
stray fluids staining the lower layers.
I have heard you talk about that pen
the way you talk about your man --
how the life within its veins
can seep
or burst forth
depending on your grip.
How you sometimes take its tip between your lips,
the vigor of your tongue
coaxing it back to liveliness.
I have dreamed of being that pencil board
settled underneath your skin
as life etches its demands across you.
I want to absorb all the scars that would pierce
beyond the sheddable surface you offer
like handfuls of plum blossoms --
so lavish, so tangible against the fingers
and yet too soon a memory
folded into the crevice of a temple wall.
Coriander Vodka
I am sipping your groans
which I've preserved in this liquid:
As you slept, I gathered up
every coriander seed I had rolled
across your skin, across the night,
your fingers trembling against the headboard.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux