by James Tipton
(09/24/08)
What If, When We Held Each Other, Our Flesh
What if, when we held each other, our flesh
became consciousness itself?
What if our flesh commingled
became the mother of light
and sound, the vast word,
the ocean forgotten at birth?
What if, when we held each other,
the skin between us slipped away,
and our old exasperated tongues
turned into everything that heals,
into one long kiss, the kiss that started
when the universe began.
What if, when we held each other,
nothing survived but one shared breath,
nothing survived but the sweet odors
of gentle and tempestuous love,
nothing survived but our sensual hearts
singing the only song there is.
The Patient Lover
His young wife knows he is dying.
Nevertheless, when she struts in
in new spike heels, her hands
on sensuous hips, she only wants
to talk of money: his Will, his Term Life,
his own green wallet lying there
that welcomes her with open mouth.
But he thinks he is young as well,
certainly too young to be dying
in this white place, plugged into tubes
that at the touch of his finger
pipe his pain to a holding place
just a short distance down the hall.
He can hear nothing now...
but still he watches his wife's full lips
work like a red fishing lure
bright in shallow water,
waiting to set those double barbs
deep into his own pink throat.
He rises to the surface, longing
for his wife to leave...but also
longing for the nurse, the middle-aged
and homely one who comes at night.
Before he sleeps, he hopes,
that she will pour sweet oil
into her strong brown hands
and then cradle in those palms
the man he used to be.
Perhaps tonight, her soft eyes
close to his, she will take him
into her mouth, smiling tenderly,
like a patient lover.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux