suddenly,
all of me belongs to all of you,
my flowers and my beans.
*
every thursday, i help his mother make
dinner, or she teaches me to cook
the way she learned, growing up
a young, poor chinese girl in tibet,
or he and i make dinner for his
family because they're running late and
we've already gotten home and fed the
cat and started the oven before
they come home.
either way.
tonight she hands me a colander
and tells me to make him help me
pick the beans.
"what beans?" he asks.
"we aren't growing any beans."
"not green beans," she says, "they are
purple beans. they are a little
sweeter and not as well known."
the small purple pods are twined
in the branches of a white rose
bush that leapt from the flower garden
into the tomatoes, squash, peppers, beans.
i pull purple beans out of purple flowers
out of thorns out of white roses
out of the first fall nip in the air
and into the waiting colander.
he tells me to be careful of the thorns.
but i slide my wrists in, the thorns
catching at my fall sweater,
not ripping it.
"all you need is a little care," i tell him.
i pull the beans down from their vine
with the same careful pressure he will use
later when he kisses my forehead.
when he pulls me down onto the bed.
all i need is a little care.
*
we have the slowest,
sweetest,
most gentle,
careful,
loving,
close,
sex.
the slowest sex.
the deepest.
the most familiar.
the most careful.
the most meaningful.
we have sex with our hot foreheads pressed together.
we have sex with my hand on his wildly thumping heart.
we have sex until neither of us can breathe.
"all of me belongs to all of you,"
i tell him.
he kisses my forehead.
he kisses my jawline.
he kisses my lips, slowly.
we always come together.
and when we do i almost cry:
not because i am sad, but
because i've never been so loved,
so precious,
cultivated,
appreciated,
consumed,
a flower and a bean,
equally wanted.
all i need is a little care.
*
"what does it feel like?" i ask him.
my head on his shoulder.
my hand in his hand.
his head on my pillow.
candles still burning.
lungs still quietly gasping.
sleepily still enraptured.
"i don't know how to tell you," he says.
"what do you think it feels like?"
i tell him that it feels like
we have gone to the moon.
i tell him that it feels like
my soul leaves my body,
finds his, unites with it.
i tell him that it feels
like we are one person,
like there is no earth but him,
like i could just go back into his rib
and be happy
forever.
"i think it is more of a physical feeling
than an emotional feeling for men,"
he says. "you know, the primal,
i must make a baby,
kind of feeling." he pauses and thinks.
"but i know that i love you," he says.
"i know that i love you more every time.
i know that i love you more every day."
he kisses me and i think
i could melt back into his rib.
we twine like the rose bush and
the bean stalks that run together
up the side of his mother's brick house,
supremely, naturally, plainly,
happy.
all i needed was a little care.
Poetry by liana
Read 683 times
Written on 2010-10-06 at 03:49
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all of me belongs to all of you,
my flowers and my beans.
scarlet runner
in some countries, the flowers are often ignored, or treated as an attractive bonus to cultivating the plant for the beans, whereas in the U.S., the scarlet runner is widely grown for its attractive flowers by people who would never think of eating it.*
every thursday, i help his mother make
dinner, or she teaches me to cook
the way she learned, growing up
a young, poor chinese girl in tibet,
or he and i make dinner for his
family because they're running late and
we've already gotten home and fed the
cat and started the oven before
they come home.
either way.
tonight she hands me a colander
and tells me to make him help me
pick the beans.
"what beans?" he asks.
"we aren't growing any beans."
"not green beans," she says, "they are
purple beans. they are a little
sweeter and not as well known."
the small purple pods are twined
in the branches of a white rose
bush that leapt from the flower garden
into the tomatoes, squash, peppers, beans.
i pull purple beans out of purple flowers
out of thorns out of white roses
out of the first fall nip in the air
and into the waiting colander.
he tells me to be careful of the thorns.
but i slide my wrists in, the thorns
catching at my fall sweater,
not ripping it.
"all you need is a little care," i tell him.
i pull the beans down from their vine
with the same careful pressure he will use
later when he kisses my forehead.
when he pulls me down onto the bed.
all i need is a little care.
*
we have the slowest,
sweetest,
most gentle,
careful,
loving,
close,
sex.
the slowest sex.
the deepest.
the most familiar.
the most careful.
the most meaningful.
we have sex with our hot foreheads pressed together.
we have sex with my hand on his wildly thumping heart.
we have sex until neither of us can breathe.
"all of me belongs to all of you,"
i tell him.
he kisses my forehead.
he kisses my jawline.
he kisses my lips, slowly.
we always come together.
and when we do i almost cry:
not because i am sad, but
because i've never been so loved,
so precious,
cultivated,
appreciated,
consumed,
a flower and a bean,
equally wanted.
all i need is a little care.
*
"what does it feel like?" i ask him.
my head on his shoulder.
my hand in his hand.
his head on my pillow.
candles still burning.
lungs still quietly gasping.
sleepily still enraptured.
"i don't know how to tell you," he says.
"what do you think it feels like?"
i tell him that it feels like
we have gone to the moon.
i tell him that it feels like
my soul leaves my body,
finds his, unites with it.
i tell him that it feels
like we are one person,
like there is no earth but him,
like i could just go back into his rib
and be happy
forever.
"i think it is more of a physical feeling
than an emotional feeling for men,"
he says. "you know, the primal,
i must make a baby,
kind of feeling." he pauses and thinks.
"but i know that i love you," he says.
"i know that i love you more every time.
i know that i love you more every day."
he kisses me and i think
i could melt back into his rib.
we twine like the rose bush and
the bean stalks that run together
up the side of his mother's brick house,
supremely, naturally, plainly,
happy.
all i needed was a little care.
Poetry by liana
Read 683 times
Written on 2010-10-06 at 03:49
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Teddy Donobauer |
