by Patricia J. Esposito
(08/25/10)

Why does desire stick in the throat,
make our lower lip swell and pulse,
so that we think we need to kiss,
to tongue, to relieve this quaking,
this body tremor, so we won't rip

at the fault line,

all because, on this sheen of tight,
bronze skin, this sculpted chest,
there swells a soft areola, ripened
in heat, the male bud they dismiss
because it feeds nothing but a woman's

seismic desire?

Somewhere Beyond the Screen

Lay him in the sand and he will be the mirage
more welcome than water, sun-burnished,
wind-glossed, his shoulders the golden planet,

spinning a sheen of light, to drench his chest,
copper-hot and shale-slick, sand and water,
what the tongue longs to skim, taste deep

the sweat of him, a tang to make the blue sky
blush as it skims his rippled ribs, down
to the intake, the oasis where his stomach dips

as skin and tongue converge, a new galaxy
spun of fired silk, weaving into the shadowed
forest, the richer soil-scent, raising again

a mirage, as the sand blows picture from screen,
fading at the closing in of your bare touch.

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