Pleasures I Have Known
His lips tasted like warm strawberries, so
moist and juicy and beautiful. He made some kind of sound. Words about
where he was going, I suppose, but I didn’t hear him. I just felt the
vibration of his words and my body tingled at his timbre. Then he left.
All I had was the warm indentation in the bed. My hand traced the
concave dip from tip to tip. Not wanting to waste his heat and his
energy, I closed my eyes hoping he would be there when I opened them,
but he wasn’t. The warm salty breeze made the sheer white curtains and
mosquito netting melt into a sensous wave, a physical reminder of his
absence. He never came back.
By The Sea, Beneath The Yellow And Sagging Moon
Every night, while tucking me into bed, my
father told me that he would meet me in my dreams by the sea, under
the yellow and sagging moon. When I was really little, I imagined the
moon as a pee-filled diaper and I prayed that my father would meet me
in my dreams in time to save me from an unpleasant shower. Later on,
when I was in school, the moon seemed more like a sugary lemon drop,
glowing from the warmth of nearby shooting stars. These days, I imagine
the moon as being sad and beautiful, sagging under the weight of
unclaimed mustard seeds, the day’s unfullfilled wishes and tomorrow’s
irrational hopes. I want to feel the heat of the moon again.
