How could I tell you back then of a passion
that startled my senses and left me lying limp
with mind gone to far away places where high
notes of surprise whined like a dog does in heat
and bellowed with lust as a bull does in the fields
I was enthralled by the feel of your touch,
forgetting that you were not meant for me.
You were an interloper who walked past
the stop sign, so satisfied, tormenting me with
fingers that flamed fires thoughout my innocence
I did not cry 'for shame' and run away. My feet were stuck
to grounds that heaved ' neath me. My body was made
of clay, grounded by a bolt of lightning that struck every
nerve I had that was linked to passion's control
Ah, I listened to Esteban's fingers drumming wildly on his
guitar and saw the candle flicker, smelled the incense of
lust and gently closed my eyes as your hands played a
tune of their own. It was midnight and my poetry book
fell to the floor. You were not hearing my words anyway
Now, I return in memory to those nights that began with
a candle lit and incense burning and a poetry book and
I wonder how the world would look at me
if it knew my secrets.
If I told that you walked with me in dark fields
and shucked husks from dry corn, to find new seeds to
plant, would they understand that new life is not always
planned? If I told that you swam with me in waters too
hot to lie in, would they understand that greed is too
numb to dread heat?
If I told that you rode me like a wild stallion
when I was not yours to ride, would they know
that wild horses gallop with freedom and do not worry
about places they claim as their own?
I doubt that a single person would applaud
as I let my thighs fall slowly apart and gave up my life
and my heart to the tune of a soulful guitar,
playing boldly, in the midnight hour.
Sylvia Sammons Spivey
copyright 2003
that startled my senses and left me lying limp
with mind gone to far away places where high
notes of surprise whined like a dog does in heat
and bellowed with lust as a bull does in the fields
I was enthralled by the feel of your touch,
forgetting that you were not meant for me.
You were an interloper who walked past
the stop sign, so satisfied, tormenting me with
fingers that flamed fires thoughout my innocence
I did not cry 'for shame' and run away. My feet were stuck
to grounds that heaved ' neath me. My body was made
of clay, grounded by a bolt of lightning that struck every
nerve I had that was linked to passion's control
Ah, I listened to Esteban's fingers drumming wildly on his
guitar and saw the candle flicker, smelled the incense of
lust and gently closed my eyes as your hands played a
tune of their own. It was midnight and my poetry book
fell to the floor. You were not hearing my words anyway
Now, I return in memory to those nights that began with
a candle lit and incense burning and a poetry book and
I wonder how the world would look at me
if it knew my secrets.
If I told that you walked with me in dark fields
and shucked husks from dry corn, to find new seeds to
plant, would they understand that new life is not always
planned? If I told that you swam with me in waters too
hot to lie in, would they understand that greed is too
numb to dread heat?
If I told that you rode me like a wild stallion
when I was not yours to ride, would they know
that wild horses gallop with freedom and do not worry
about places they claim as their own?
I doubt that a single person would applaud
as I let my thighs fall slowly apart and gave up my life
and my heart to the tune of a soulful guitar,
playing boldly, in the midnight hour.
Sylvia Sammons Spivey
copyright 2003

