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Bound to Stakes


by Con Chapman


The only time you asked me to tie your limbs
   to the bedposts, it was the middle of the day
   and our little Italian landlord could be seen
   outside in his garden, through the screen.

He was tending his tomatoes, tying them
   with twine to the wooden stakes.
You were never wetter,
   it was never better.

Mr. Pizzoni held his hose;
   we kept our moans low
   so he wouldn't know
   what was going on inside,

   where beads of sweat
   formed on your breasts,
   like drops of water on the
   globes of red fruit below.

Tomatoes are fruits, not vegetables,
   you know; they have seeds,
   and grow from an ovary in
   the base of the flower.

We were like that fruit--male and
   female, one and the other as one.
Outside, it started to rain, but
   no clouds obscured the sun.


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