August 10, 2008

The "Ex-Pat" Love [2nd. Revision]

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 .., her head tipped back, and she lifted herself;
raising her hips from the bed.


[Later,...much, later,

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 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:

First love,...

...a second revision.


No comments: