I 

From his bronzed skin
love sparks, lighting in the glass, 
the throat, my better judgment. 
His scent is innocence
and complication.
Rare knowing grips my bone. 
Please not now; 
not this demi-man, with eyes 
like polished stone. 
                             He watches me.
I stretch my chin, work my fingers
through his black curls, begin
to cut, the way he likes it, neat
and close. Don't be shy, he says.
I know you, I reply. He smiles.
We talk of falcon gods. I memorize
his face, brush lapis from his brow,
wonder if he'll taste of lotus fruit
and wild papyrus.  


II

Those eyes, our soft-kissed mouths,
that searching hand upon my thigh, a tangle
of jeans and legs and hair, the wild terrain
of intimate geography. Look at us, he says,
so close, so close, still holding back.


III

With his touch, whole decades
fall, and I am new as he and naked
as the sun. My back against his chest,
we sway before the glass. His hands
dance over me. He makes me look.
He tells me zippers are so sexy, slides
mine down. In bed he whispers woman,
and I let him curl his mouth along
the inside of my thigh, my curve of hip,
that place behind my knee, anywhere
he wants. Later, loosing jasmine
from the bedroom sill, I marvel
at my own audacity.

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