Younger, the heart was hit and run,
a trick in the night, a one night stand,
like this: Hard again out of sleep
on the arm a world woman,
little kiss tastes like lemon and milk,
funny snoring snort, a warm water hug,
she cat growls good morning,
she makes me awake.
And I leave and recreate her by spell casting
on Mondays the poetry of her flesh.
Years later, a stranger to emotion,
I felt a need to wake again,
and I did, in a different way.
The bed was empty. My degrees worthless.
And I wanted that touch again.
It wasn't Wittgenstein or Heidegger,
Foucault or DeMan that broke the gates
that held my fate from reaching out to touch
others who felt and dreamed like me.
It was women with names like Gong Li,
Sonja Sohn, Patti Smith and Sylvia Plath.
It was for them I could feel.
It was through them that
I closed the books and lived.
I dream of Poet Goddesses with silk tan breasts,
of tongues of venom and tongues of honey.
I live with them, I've kissed them.
I've burned with them, with them I learned
that Wisdom and experience,
contemplation and desire,
are stronger through the years
I've learned to love.
I've grown into my heart.
