Nancy Chase

NANCY CHASE

Lotus Blossoms

Hush, do not speak:
The longing is the message.
Blind and sure as a compass needle
I yearn towards you, that secret north.
In my blood they resonate--those dark places of you,
the hidden ore beneath polar snow,
the noon-day night shimmering with silent fire.

Ah, those eyes!
They melt the marrow from my bones.
My skin is filled with hummingbirds and shards of colored glass.
Shy and eager as a priestess, I come
carrying my strange desire,
all glinting sharp and throbbing soft,
an offering, no more.

A kiss? Oh yes, an arrow to the heart.
My pulse leaps and struggles like a salmon in a flood.
Our mingled breath is a silver chime,
a bolt of saffron silk unfurled.
Quivering like a kite-string,
some part of me that is neither spine nor soul
crackles a connection between here and immortality.

Come, touch me now.
Conjure fields of poppies out of dust and twigs and brine.
We'll celebrate the sacrament of hands and lips,
with bodies sing the hymn of holy lust,
feed hunger with hunger, quench flesh in flesh.
It is a taking and a giving, both.
Come, lie with me and be fulfilled.

Afterwards, when you are gone away,
I will lie, half-smiling, in the tumbled bed,
breathing in the scent of you,
my thoughts scattered like lotus blossoms on a pillow,
my body glowing like superheated metal,
cooling slowly down to black,
tempered, stronger than before.

Reply

a touch that thrills the hair on neck and arms
a palm laid warm upon a cheek a kiss
on parted lips and teeth and taste of salt
dark hair that falls across dark eyes that sing
two arms that pull a body close and tighter still
breath rises full to meet the burden of your weight
the strength of knees the swell of thighs
the sweat-slick curve of spine
the smell of blood and warm sea rain
orchids and incense and dripping ripe mangoes
like surf to the rocks the smooth fusion of flesh and soul
the rhythm and mute cries
and then
the glorious agony
the dark kaleidoscope turning
opening
shuddering like the sea in the throb of blood and seed
when the sea gods raise new lands
or throw them down

Picnic

I would spread the bodies of all my lovers
beneath me on the fertile earth,
with my fingers comb their hair like grass:
blacks and browns, blonds and reds.
Walk barefoot over their mossy chests,
roam the sunlit hills of thighs and shoulders.
Butterfly mouths would brush my skin,
and nipples bud like buttercups.
Upon the field, I'd plant a forest:
cocks like smooth and sturdy saplings,
straining toward the light.
I would pour all of myself upon the riches of the earth,
discard my doubts like cast-off clothes,
feast upon strawberries,
chocolate,
and asparagus,
and let my soul blossom in the sun.

Unexpected

My hair liquefies,
knees melt.
His fingernail travels
the back roads from temple to
sudden jawbone.
Secret teeth nibble
one guilty earlobe.
Small, despairing moan.
Resistance.
Look away.
So subtle.
What to say?
Temptation tickles along spine and scalp
Ah, the silky web of his eyelashes,
the firm breath,
the strong arch of nostril.
Sink into surrounding arms and sigh.
Hands and flesh, heat and lips.
Decision.
Slippery elbows, sudden knees.
Unexpected persuasion.
Unexpected yes.

Portrait of Your Eyes

I want to paint a portrait of your eyes.
My brush would sing their Epicurean psalm,
and with a sable touch, immortalize
their cobalt-shadowed, sweet cerulean calm.

I want to sculpt the hardness of your thighs
and mold your sinews' curves with eager hand,
etch shadows where the tawny muscles rise,
explore you like an undiscovered land.

I want to play the music of your hair,
legato, till my fingers memorize
the crescendo of your pulse, the gentle air
of your breath's muted lullabies.

And when I've read the novel of your lips,
before we end the chapter on goodbyes
and close it with reluctant fingertips,
I want to paint a portrait of your eyes.