Be Mine
I linger over plump, plush, push-up-bra valentines,
those with glitter and bling, iridescent textured papers,
laser-cut-love in plastic, wood, flammable, frameable
rice paper, limited-edition fabrications to rival-any third
world butterfly. Cards as big as a menu in a decadent
Antoine’s or Galatoire’s of 1960s New Orleans. Will
this memento salve an indiscretion?
Do I want one of these methods and materials seduction
samplers. Some of them smell. Is that Chloe’s Nomade
which exudes a faint odor of sweet sweat glands, under
tones of an oasis of designer drinks. Drink-me parfum
de him or her. Grow strong for the camel trek across the
Sahara. The beast stores up water from the well for those
months you will miss him.
The subliminal reality of blood red promises, clandestine
exchanges in kitchens and tubs – even if it’s in your house
and you’re both available. Baby, excuse me while I move
to a separate bed, room, house, state because you’re so
irresistible. I can’t help but want-want-want you, and I have
serious work to do, which is why you might want to select
one of those added-value
musical valentines. A post-coital lullaby to calm the doubts,
erase the trailing scent of burning rubber.Premium Assortment
Black Beauty Roses hammered in repoussé tin. Diagonal
Miss America banner promises interior treasures. Rip that
off. Pry apart. What have we here? Case of the vanishing
chocolates. Bonbons spaced like a blueprint of houses
meeting wide setback rules. Creams that should melt in
the mouth, stick to the teeth.
Give me the red-pleated satin number with gold cordite lock.
I want to wear the box as bustier. Like a cabinet, it’ll swing
open for les invités to choose a cacao-wrapped elixir of love.
This is a spin-off of Valie Export’s “Touch Cinema.” She
wore a wooden box strapped to her chest. Passersby pulled
aside a curtain, reached in, fondled her breasts.
Flecks of brittle nibs hang suspended in truffles. Did kisses
I blew over the batch ever reach you? Do they linger –
a refrain snatched from the ether, grazing your lips over
and over. Taste me as you lick a smear of chocolate from
your fingers, decadence dissolving on your tongue.
We do what we can to educate masses of potential lovers,
feed the hungry and ease suffering.
The Poet and Her Muse: a Blazon
Whenever my heart pounds, parts of my lover spring to mind. From far away, he emails me
nudes and I admire them. Words and images move him. He demands a fantasy, I imagine making
out in cushy chairs at the Corazon. He sends me a photo of a dark corner in the theater.
I remember his buttocks soft as my dog’s ears, his member at times like a Slinky that goes up and
down stairs. Hairs of his arms a beautiful bleached blond. His eyes the green of a roiled Atlantic.
I dig dirty, military olive – so commanding. I like eyes in uniform.
I march for women and teens but in my peach bedroom, sing to a sailor’s breath spiked with the
salt of anchovies. This April spring poem is not for his nose or knees but rather for his head.
Don’t think of this as maternal or macabre.
This is a re-member-ment not dismemberment poem. A persistent chirp of praise – much as
Petrarch applauded Laura’s parts: her earlobes dangling like delicious drupes, her tiny feet in
high-heeled pumps, her bejeweled chest rising to greet his entrance.
I cradle my lover’s ovoid perfection. With fingers splayed, I explore the egg-shaped muse’s face.
De Chirico, the Italian painter, opens salubrious tubes, lubricates the canvas with his oils. The
shadowy alcoves of his classic arches provide a perfect spot for risky trysting.
My commodore might prefer a more masculine metaphor. I imagine his head as a football un-
tapered but quite tuck-able. Proudly I would carry it under my arm, like a prized French batard.
Awkward, you say? Yes, were his pompano fish fins less capable of swimming through air.