i speak a foreign language.

a million syllables and a thousand vowels,
and i speak it alone.

all i want is the pleasures of body and the connection of soul,
but i am tangled
in this language only i speak.

when spoken it holds a weight i don’t understand,
and intentions not desired.

i withheld my longing for the pleasures of body and the connection of soul,
frightened by the weight
of my words.

then gentle fingers fell upon lips and took the sounds.

a mouth came to my mouth and took words.

every syllable and vowel was swallowed whole.

as every syllable and vowel was held,
a voice in my language said,

i hear you.
i know your intentions.
I understand.
speak without fear.
speak honestly and
open fully.
rest here naked in the flesh
and
free of concerns.


my longing for the pleasures of body
and the connection of soul returned to me.

with the language we speak,
the language we share,
we will reveal ourselves.

we will draw letters with our tongues
and with soft breath upon our necks we will write stories.

it’s midday.
i empty the coffee grinds
from the press.
it’s too late now for
another cup.
i bring the
grinds to the compost;
walking through the grass
barefoot.
it is so humid
the lawn
feels damp underfoot.
i pause and look up,
shielding my eyes
from the sun.
above,
one thin wisp
of cloud.
it looks out of place.
can you see this?
wherever you are,
can you see this?
the curvature of the cloud
is so feminine
in shape;
voluptuous and round,
gesturing in both a crude
and shy way.
can you see this?
i am out of place;
here in the yard,
on the humidity soaked grass.
can you see me?
wherever you are,
can you see me?
i stand until
the cloud
melts away into blue,
a rich blue,
a humid blue.
wherever you are,
can you see me?

pink sky
just a thin strip
pale
silhouetted trees
the humidity
broken
gentle fingers
on skin
just a soft touch
hold
stay here night
stay
silhouettes moving
graceful
pink sky
thin strip of light
early dawn
stay here night
stay

i have misunderstood
the plum
such a thing
often overlooked
we feed each other slices
of sweet ripe fruit
collecting the juice
with our tongues
and sucking the extract
from our lips
tasting both fruit
and skin
this is our language
words have failed us both
it is primal
it is perfect
it is all we want
sticky fingers and lips
and the pit of a plum

under the covers
like children,
gigging.
we could build a fort,
line the insides with pillows
and innocence.
i lost this somewhere.
i tried to find my way back;
i wanted to explain,
to apologize.
but our language is
different now,
our tongues do not
meet as they once did.
yours is dry,
a language of
such bitter fruit.
mine is spliced,
and broken
with a lifetime of apologies
left unheard
and unanswered.
i’m returning,
slowly.
i am under the covers,
gaining innocence
in the fort i’ve built.
like a child
i’m learning a new language,
one that no longer
only apologizes,
one that is
no longer boxed by
worries or shaped
by fears of losing you,
for it is you
who have lost me.

your fingertips
to me
are more than flesh.
they speak
of how we
arrived here;
from shy and
gentle,
to eager animals
with fire
under our nails.
it is no wonder
we still retain hope,
that our fingertips
aren’t calloused and
hardened.
in the early dawn,
we spend hours
tracing each other’s bodies;
single, graceful lines
with delicate fingertips
of fire.

i sat folding petals between

my fingers;

delicate around worn,

gentle through rough.

i asked,

will you remember

me like this?

“this is how i

will remember you!”


you responded,

with fire and nails.

will you remember

me as a lover

who placed lilies in


candlelight?

as a lover who


held their scent for us,

for our desire;

their scent for our craving,

their scent for our lust?

will you remember me

like that?

“this is how i

will remember you!”


you said;

with spit and venom.

i know now

you never had a lily petal for

a tongue.

you are too bitter

to house something so

beautiful in your mouth,

and too angry

to hold something so sacred

in your mind.

this is how i

will remember you.

i am distracted tonight
cars hum as they wind along rt1
the garden houses crickets
a thousand of them
and a dog barks endlessly
i want this
intimacy in the
common place
bodies together
in the ordinary
of life



salty butter
and sweet marmalade

the past is
never as close

a kitchen full of dirty 
dishes

gentle bites
upon necks as

hands find ways
to body

tasting lips
of marmalade

the dirty dishes
can wait

they can wait
until morning