by Nick Carbo
Well, you can read for yourself, the intent or desire of this prompt. Try not to be too mundane or too obvious, is part my take on the challenge here (right or wrong). So this response – an old old poem, here rewritten to a major extent. Perhaps more what might be “foreplay” than literal sex in that literal way, and taken as but in a moment or two, a particular sort of “greeting”, if you will (or won’t). But, so be it, as it is.
Read the responses of others here. Enjoy!
Simple fruit Simple fruit hangs from the tree, yearning
along with gravity toward surrender’s palm.
In the kitchen warm summer dims
as evening chimes the day; I come
barefoot behind you there.
Last heat softens, glistens on your bare arms,
pale brown as you lean into shaping the meal.
Shallow lime scent arrives sweet, mixes
with the flavor your hands caress.
Cheek then lips find the moist back of your
neck, gossamer hairs receive the breeze,
your barest breath receives an autumn blush.
That aroma, yours alone, climbs on cat paw
feet above lime and orange, lingers to be found
among the leaves. Waits for a basket
in which to slowly fall.
Symmetry takes my shape as I fall into yours.
The bowl on the counter fills wordlessly.
Wet fruit skins lay drying on the counter top.
A cup with sugar and a spoon rests nearby.
Our curve becomes a single weight.
You move hands diligent to your task,
yet move where movement cannot be,
closer by mutual intent.
My hands find the fabric weave of cloth,
reach forward into limbs. More fruit yet
remains to pluck, to fall, to ripen in one
simple touch.
You turn, arms swaying within this current,
making lips cousin close. Breath passes by.
I whisper your name, beneath that breath.
Neil Reid © (December 2009)
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