Sri Radha Afternoons
The incense from the market smells of making love to you.
It's musky, brutal, a guilty pleasure I return to, forgetting
that my olfactory nerve remembers more than my
flesh, feels the grip of my feet on the back of your hips,
your barely there chest hair and my freedom breasts-
pressed, caressed- there was never enough
time for my shirt to come all the way off
in the madness. We were wild, medieval magpies,
sweaty and sweet and selfish; and so much more
than we were before I lit that first stick of spice,
nothing subtle about the sandalwood or basil,
my thighs allowing yours as the smoke filled
the room and we came before the end of the wick.
|
4
favs |
1156 views
5 comments |
122 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
I've read that scent is one of the best triggers of memory... and I find that to be true ... when I smell fresh cut grass, the strawberries of my youth, wear an old perfume, etc. This poem gives credit to incense.
Ooooh I enjoyed this--lusty and aromatic.*
This is just too good - sprinkled with lust all over just in the right amount. Enjoyed. *
Ah, a return to the Summer of Love! In my mind, anyway. *
*
Textually, some nice moves going on here.
The tough thing about doing sexy scenes is sex can suffuse overly, dominating the work underneath. If there is any underneath. This moves nicely, full-bodied, if I may say so.