by Joe Girard
(06/10/09)

i

Like
lingering lingerie,
half-mooning
all her globed bulging
with suck-back cups --
robbing us of the rubbing
necessary
for plain-flat flesh
to harden like a star's iron heart --
black lace
eggshelling her sunflower
skin by comparison,
strap snaps parting the pieces,
fragmenting
the fist-and-finger focus, and
the need to kneed
born as the cups shell out,
her frame unframed,
hatch unthatched,
her wintry body naked
as yours

spring becomes summer

ii

Like
crawling into bed
beside one hogging without hugging,
crimped between an elbow, a knee, a foot,
a topography of hair (don't pull it!)
spilling like a springtime's harvest lines,
and a wall,
contorting and conforming
to become the perfect occupant
of the space left,
reasoning that the disagreement, between
freezer-plaster and oven-flesh,
teaches the desirable lesson
that lust dwells so close to pain,
only to repel
with one's twisting
the lain lover in question,
having you now the hog
of flesh-heated sheets,
and woefully aware
of wrong-doing

summer becomes autumn

iii

Like
jotting down letters (jutting jauntily
over refrigerator white board
in choked-up chicken scratch)
just to wipe up the dry ink,
erasing a chaste insistence (...love you...),
useless as year-end rain
urging buds to spurt up under ice,
replaced with a racy,
zinc-sapping sentiment,
sputtered in a fluttering stutter --
I wanna f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f --
unable to come
out with the truth:
wanna screw, wanna scream
wanna cream,
want your knees bent like rent trees
wanna count down from three
wanna wilt like dead leaves
wanna freeze in a moment
of perfect release

autumn becomes winter

iv

Like
your lover's public privacy
perversely perceived
through the food court by you
with an outpouring of purring,
her perforated white skirt
adrift around her stride,
swivelling like a swing
see-sawing in the wind,
you imagining it melting down her sun-burnt
brown leather sofa thighs
into a rainbow-stained gasoline puddle
in your hands,
the copse of her crotch
a pop-up book of leafless trees,
prompting
the sowing of seeds,
the fragrance
of autumn's final feast
glistening on the tip
of each twig

winter becomes spring

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