were the first groove laid down.
that became a story
is the one
that was meant to be told
Our bed is a boat
on the Sea of Cortez.
The bay is silent, dark with moonlight
and the howls of dogs,
entranced by the romance
of a coyote.
within the old tape deck of my heart
Frida’s longing for Diego.
Nighttime turns and tosses
to the pulse
of Earth’s blood;
Her tide is overflowing
into salt beds,
veins of white upon the land.
in your strong arms,
safe and secure,
luxuriating in scents of pipe smoke
beneath my eyelids,
master works of ethereal colors frescoed
in sacred brush strokes
upon the cave walls
of my dreaming mind.
Being with you
feels just like coming home
to a place
I never was before.
Love him with a wild and desperate yearning.
Love him with the hospitality of the Bedouins,
a fierce and elaborate generosity.
Love him the way a dog loves it’s owner,
pouncing and licking
in excitement and adoration.
Love him with shamanistic cunning.
Read his sexual fantasies
in your tea leaves
and give him
lucid wet dreams.
Love him with the eloquence of a poet,
talk dirty poetry into his ear
before you stick your tongue in there
and nibble his earlobe.
Love him like the Earth Mother herself,
welcome every part of him
inside the grand consensus
of your body.
Receive him the way the ground does
the roots of trees and plants;
be his fertile, fecund foundation.
Kiss him like a delicate blossoming flower kisses the sky,
straining in impossibility to touch the beauty of the soul
across the great distance of inherent separateness.
Give him the best sex he’s ever had
and hope with gentle hope
that he will love you in return.
And for god’s sakes hope
that he will not treat you the way humans do with Mother Earth,
trashing and polluting you
even though your ever loving body is
his only home.