JAYNE PUPEK

Sappho Sleeping

I should get up,
grind beans,
brew black,
make toast,
scramble
gold in a bowl.
But how can I leave
spiral of bedsheet
winding my body,
sun on my face,
and a fearless sparrow
perched on our porch feeder
cracking seeds and singing?
Let the day go on without me.
Sappho sleeps beside me,
bundled under cover,
slim leg across mine.
Her nipples, hard as buds,
bloom against my tongue.

Torso (c)2004 Cheryl Townsend

The Way We Sleep

Sometimes we curl. Snails
digging underground, burrow
in blue blanket earth.

Other times,
the curve of your ass
warms my belly. Spoons.

My face nuzzles your back.
Tongue traces outline
of spine in the dark.

I breathe you into me.
Lavender-tinged sweat.
Layers of skin
I know by heart.

But the way I like you best
is face to face,
breathing same breath.
Pressed together,
warm loaves of breasts
rise.



Banjo (c)2004 Cheryl Townsend

Orange

Eyes of the cat
not in love, but in heat.
The season's ripe seeds.
Rinds open.

Mardi Gras float.
The flank of a colt.
Urns on our deck.
A cavy.

Parrot headdress.
November leaf-drift.
Hair-beads on the Rastafarian.

The smell of melons and sex.
The scarf on your neck.
Fireglow and moonglow
this summer.

Barton's notebook.
The door to our porch.
Mimosas poured in flutes
on the table.

New penny glint.
Brushstrokes and wet brick.
The gleam in your eyes
this morning.