In the summer
I add my heat
to a city already aflame.
In the summer
my thighs are in bloom,
perfumed and bare.
In the summer
we scent one another -
just animals selecting a mate.
Twine your arms about me
slick with beads of desire
and damp against my waist.
I turn into your neck
to swallow your salt,
surviving on a simple mineral.
The others press by us
women, flushed at the breast,
treat the season as a lover.
Fanning The Times, spreading news
of their ripeness.
Lifting skirts over knees
coaxing a breeze, however shy,
to poke its nose where the furnace burns brightest.
Males stare, with naked longing.
Summer makes meals of flesh
that winter would never allow.
This city cooks us.
Steeped in our fine juices,
we exhale hot breath
ingest of a pheromone feast.
So, come, eat me!
While the old fan creaks, and blows,
wheezily, through a wet dishcloth,
and ice makes the pitcher
cry rings through old varnish.
Dizzy Gillespie
sings along with our noise,
joins in at crescendo,
and murmurs our sighs.
In the summer
melting ice on my throat
echo fingers upon me
probing and wet.
Let’s mix our heat
and burn this place down!
What else can we do
when the devil’s in town?
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
In the summer
I add my heat
to a city already aflame.
In the summer
my thighs are in bloom,
perfumed and bare.
In the summer
we scent one another -
just animals selecting a mate.
Twine your arms about me
slick with beads of desire
and damp against my waist.
I turn into your neck
to swallow your salt,
surviving on a simple mineral.
The others press by us
women, flushed at the breast,
treat the season as a lover.
Fanning The Times, spreading news
of their ripeness.
Lifting skirts over knees
coaxing a breeze, however shy,
to poke its nose where the furnace burns brightest.
Males stare, with naked longing.
Summer makes meals of flesh
that winter would never allow.
This city cooks us.
Steeped in our fine juices,
we exhale hot breath
ingest of a pheromone feast.
So, come, eat me!
While the old fan creaks, and blows,
wheezily, through a wet dishcloth,
and ice makes the pitcher
cry rings through old varnish.
Dizzy Gillespie
sings along with our noise,
joins in at crescendo,
and murmurs our sighs.
In the summer
melting ice on my throat
echo fingers upon me
probing and wet.
Let’s mix our heat
and burn this place down!
What else can we do
when the devil’s in town?
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