Body

On the bed,
you look more like
a dark and mysterious
mountain range,
the candlelight casting
shadows on you like sunset.
I travel every trail,
stopping to hold
handfuls of earth,
warm and moist,
squishing between my fingers.
I sing and dance
in apple orchards,
lush and fragrant,
patches of undiscovered
wildflowers with butterflies.
I roll over your lands
like wind, like
a breeze,
a kiss across acres
of rolling fields,
a promise
of a summer storm,
of rolling purple clouds
and a gentle warning
of warm rain.
I imagine
a small village
nestled inside
your hip,
a close-knit community,
scrambling
as the ground beneath it
trembles,
and I almost hear
the villagers slapping
their shutters shut,
as the thunder rumbles
through their wooden shanties.
A couple smokes dope
close to where your inner thigh
slopes down,
maybe under the cover
of a plastic blue tarp,
sitting on a picnic table,
the heavy rain licking
their flip-flopped feet,
waiting for the storm to pass
for their inevitable return
to the world,
desparately hoping
this might be
the storm that lasts
all night.

(c)Jeff Jones

published in Skipping Stones 2006

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA