I used to hurl myself at the idea                                  
that your body is a craving,                                        
a fire to be stroked.                                                      
Ne­ver did I feel that heat,                                            
the heat of skin on skin,maybe,
but the "fire in your *****"
"passion in the rippling bodies"
never.
Were my *****'s a little loose?
They all spoke another language
with their hips and lips
and the fingers grasping at the hem of my skirt.
I flicked them away.
Sent them dancing in reverse down my leg
and back to the party.

Forced myself to play into the ****** game
of who done who.
But I never lost a round.
And I never lost my *******, either.
Because once I felt the walls come down
I was a ghost.
I was water,
slipping through your fingers
left nothing but a wet spot on your trousers
and a little annoyance at your dumb luck.

Keeping my flowers on their stems.
I let the hands find me,
call it peer-pressure.

I let Lewis and Clark
explore my terrain.
They both left positive feedback
and told everyone
about their grand adventures
in my mountains and valleys
and swift, coursing rivers.

I was busy playing hide and seek
in the closet
with the boys and girls
and forgot to mention
that all I wanted
were a few kind words
and a hand to hold.

Busy keeping pace with the promiscuity
of my youth
and losing track of those sweet little wisps
of lovers,
fleeting.
Eluding my fingers,
slipping through them
like water,
leaving my eyes a little wet
and the rest of me
damp with a dark shade of gray.

Maybe I am just afraid.

of what?

Of everything.

You should know that I complain.
A lot.
About the heat and the snow
and the ******* that cut me off on my way to the store.
I will complain. And whine.
Because no one ever listened before.

You should know that I might shy away from your fingers.
My self esteem has been smothered beyond resurrection
and I'll hide my face in the sunlight
and cower, blushing and shamed
when your hands show even the slightest hint of lust.

I hope you understand
that I will smile.
I will smile about the trees and the wind
and comment on the way tendrils of mist
wind through the valley
or how the colors of the pasture
are so vibrant in April.
And I will smile and sing to the windows.
You will listen, I hope.

You should know that sometimes,
when we creep along the highway in the evening
and a song comes on, dripping with sentiment
in the way the sun sets behind the mountains,
I will want you to be silent.
Hushed and still as the horizon.
I will need the radio up, the voices off,
I will need your fingers in mine.

I want you to know that I crave a listener.
An understand-er.
A know-er and do-er.
A lover.
I need silence and peace
and long drives into the dark.
I need whispers and songs
and summer breezes in the bedroom.
I need and want and lust and whine.


I'm selfish and sad
and I know you'll understand someday.
even if it takes a life-time.

We all could use a little faith
in our diseased gardens
and frayed robes.
We all could use a steady hand to hold.

Woman, with the six string in your lap,
honey,
make the mountain sing.
Lover, in the sweaty satin sheets,
baby,
show me the good the night does bring.
You stained my skin with delicate song
the caress of your melody urges me on.

I longed to be here.
Forgetting how much I loathed these walls
till I found myself inside them
again.

You might put the past behind you,
but even when the sun is on your back
you can still feel it's heat.