Tricia Thibodeaux Baar
The sun, and a magnificent few
who love in their own ways.
Last night we rubbed sticks together
for fire and listened to crickets
rubbing sticks together for song.
The light from the heat
and the vibration of the morning.
He kissed my mouth
as if he were sucking a ripe fruit,
his teeth gently breaking the thin peel
of my resolve until he tasted me
all the way to the stone, which
had split and was beginning to sprout.
I shed the night’s wrapping and
unfurl toward the beckoning sky.
How does the length of him fit against me,
lying side by side,
when standing he is so much further?
I lift to the kisses.
I rise for the kiss and the heat.
The only tongue, one taste,
the only words in one whisper
curled up inside my ear,
purring there like a tiny kitten.
I hum with the lingering memory;
I warm in the depth of his voice.
All this thrilling echo now
mists the air like perfume to cover
the muskier fragrances.
I pulse in the rays of the morning.
I have no more words, yet sing.