by Coleen T. Houlihan
(05/13/09)

And I was the Water

You were the sand Brigitte Bardot walked across.
She told me how you
got up between her toes
and tried to stay.
San Tropez water
lapping at your thighs.
Escargots get stranded and die.
To think I would have
swallowed your cock whole.

It had been immediate,
but then again
I don't look at many men.
Just touch this, I said.
All soft skin,
little angel creaming her jeans
for the whip of your tongue-trick too hollow.
So I pulled you up to
my lair and said,
Now is the time to
dive and die.

Other men vanished along the shore.
You should have been impressed.
I had lipstick I wanted
to put on you--
blood red to remind you
that the smear of my cunt
was a color you would have
come to love.
If only you had not puckered,
I would have landed
my dream,
become the whore my childhood
fantasies desired,
made you realize
some skin is meant for fire,
loved you in the hiss of steam.

She Refuses to be Good

She refuses to be good,
takes tea instead with a heavily tanned man
who does not know Plato
but is living proof of Darwin--
all experiments are conducted in enclosed spaces,
all human beings take off their masks and an animal
voice replaces the low hushed timbre
of polite conversation.

She refuses to be good
even as she sings to God.
Disrespectful of the 'home' of skin,
she resurrects instead the 'throne' to skin
and finds grace in the curve of her neck,
the flex of a toe, erasing from memory
the past for what she now knows.

I know God has seen the
skin stretched taunt over the head
of an erect cock.
I know God has smelled the scent
of a cunt in first flush,
and painted its roseate
color in the evening sky.
I know God gave us language
and bid us well,
but if pleasure connotes sin
perhaps we all need to start again.

She refuse to be told
what satiates skin
is the subversion of soul.

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