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SHE
SAID IT WAS A SHOCK
that mound of red hair,
something sprouting
from it, like yucca
that sprouts up for one
night and then dies. It was
different, the dark under
covers, the man like a
heavy quilt and then
something like what the
gynecologist might
plunge inside. Seeing
in the light, on the stand
in front of the art class,
the drawstring revealed
quietly, no bump and
grind but something
falling away like a
cocoon and there, that
nest that mound, redder
than his beard and the
buttocks too, melons,
but harder, fruit she
could reach out to finger,
hold. But how to put
what's like the first snake
out of Medusa's hair
down, how to capture
this stalk without
petals she's half drawn
to leap toward and smell
WHEN
I READ ABOUT ANOTHER WOMAN WHOSE PLEASURE CAME
from texts written on
her body, who takes a series
of calligraphy lovers
because her father used
to write traditional
greetings on her face,
I thought of how it was
your words, not on skin
or thighs, but those verbs
might have been fingers
over the radio, pulling
me close to your lips,
a magnet midnight to
dawn before I saw your ice
blue lake eyes no one could
skate over without danger
of drowning, you stroked
and soothed, sucked
on every part of me
opening for more
REPRIEVE
for the moment, my
cat, who turned her head
at chunks of just
cut beef, now is nuzzling
nearly empty cat food
tins, purrs thru the
night. Limp as rags,
for a week under the
bed, she claws the
rug in the sun. I say
nothing, just listen
as I do to her crunching
food, lapping water
at 2 AM. In stillness
the sound comforts
like bells or words in
Spanish or French
I don't understand. Her
chewing, like pearls
or amber warming to
skin soothes though it
is as untranslatable
to me as the nuances
under chatter in
the streets in Montreal
or Paris. Still, for
the moment, like music
or velvet, her paws on my
eyelids are a reprieve,
like June, or roses
or lilacs in early light
before anything scorches,
goes limp or loses
its rouge, while morning
glories are a necklace
of amethyst, exotic as
gracias, si, bon, merci
http://www.lynlifshin.com/
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