After his arrival, it would take months,
(maybe, years) for him to digest every nuance of her.
There was, in her manner, so much he'd only half-see;
taking her in fully, but, not completely.
His tongue played lightly over her belly;
traversing the smooth island of her abdomen,
and the fine, Andalusian, curves of her buttocks.
The Language of Love doesn't shout,
with frustrated incomprehension, he’d said to her;
whispering in the dark ..
..as, her head tipped back, and she lifted herself;
raising her hips from the bed.
after I'd fully gathered her language,
(her inflections, her Spanish-Spanglish prosody)
a paired intimacy would be realized, incorporated;
yes, the sex, the fucking, the "making love," and, "the humpty-hump," became, all of a piece.
Our own, timeless, motion, ..
a moving forward.]
Each night, in his exile,
(counting his blessings, along with the coins in each pocket)
the poet found a new voice, with her~~
in her, New words, emerged, as they did,
from the Old World.
"The body in love", she replied, ~~[in, all coyness]~~
"fills itself with each stolen moment. Time's heartbeat, changes each word, each breath. It's a universal thing, love.
Love is, just that...to me,...
...To me, your cock speaks volumes of Poetic Love.
(Don't laugh, it's true!) Volumes and Volumes.
Don't believe, then. I should spank you, my poet; however, my mouth is ravenous and, at the moment, you're too present;
like, some banner, unfurled, above the town square."
[How he ever escaped his Homeland,
more alive than dead,
would forever be a mystery:
Fate, threw him across the ocean;
while, further back, tanks rolled into his Country
and bulldozers destroyed his home;
his words, clutched in his hands;
a carrying case of papers and phony documents;
the rushed agitation of pulling clothes from hangers and drawers,...
...strewn about the room, on the bed;
chairs, tossed about,
lying like four-footed animals, about the room;
broken dishes, pulled from cabinets, and flung onto the floor;
his sister, in a nightshirt, crying in a half-lit corner of the sitting-room
and bent over, clutching her stomach, with a bloodied hand;
a raised voice, a hand slap, a head turned to pulp;
and, Time flows backward,
with a shot fired, and a leap in the dark...
...His possessions, hastily given flight.
His ankle, twists, and cracks, as he makes contact with the pavement;
and, the sound of his pain, muffled by the sirens,
the sirens...the screams, and gunshot.]
He speaks her language now;
his own, seems like dust in his mouth.
[The woman who saved him, appearing on the docks, a vision:
With mourning and compassion and light and love, (as, his family, slowly, departs);..
..scattered now, and, aligned with the four points of the compass; destination, unknown. He feels too old, to be so young.]
Now, as she takes him, whole,
into her mouth, his head turns toward the window
.. the windowpane.
He is engulfed, and smiling.
A soft breeze,
sways the gauze curtain:
...a second revision.