Poetry journal 2017
When you wake up
to fine a slice of lime on your pillow,
you remember his mouth tasting you
in ways you only imagine
His body pressing into you
In ways you can still feel,
The stranger you men on this trip
You didn’t expect to meet,
Needing to meet,
Feeling yourself before you
Are brave enough to go to him,
And demand that he take you,
And aching when he does
This bit of salvation from loneliness
You always feel, still feel,
Puzzled at his thinking that
Limes makes things pure,
Even the impure things,
And you wonder if the lime works
When he goes to taste
Those part of you
You claim an unclean,
Then banging you like a bell
Until you ring inside and out
This brief meeting in a place
You never expected to meet anyone,
Your need lost in this taste of lime,
His mouth – and then other parts of him –
Going to a place in you of utter need,
As you ask, “please, please me,”
And so, he does,
Lime making everything pure,
Lime making everything all right,
And you wake to that slice of lime on your pillow,
A reminder of what was and a promise
Of what might be again.
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