Equal across the table,
hands flighty and animated,
she sets them
next to the cup of chili salsa,
her Chopin fingers lift and point,
fold and punctuate
the tales of her siblings and her life.
Responding in kind
my own hands orchestrate
the verses of my life,
the one before manhood
before insight.
And the conversation moves to
a study of sex and the sensual,
of voyeurs and lovers
in world history,
my confusion over roles and needs
of civilization can only carve,
scratch and question,
I can’t reach a conclusion.
Sex: She knows she has the power,
the flexed presence of womanhood,
it commands and controls
the simpler natures of men.
Sensual: Me, I’m so outside,
all I want is to hold her hand,
to talk on into the distance
where dialogs never end.
And there’s one thing I know
about all this:
sensuality, language and relating
teach more, drive more,
satisfy more
than any night of passion can.
