PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Our customary habit was to arrive just before the cartoons began; the

sun just below the horizon behind us, and to the East (for we have seen

His Star in the East . . . so spoke those Starwatchers), the first stars of the

evening began to emerge.  We had not yet turned the c.b. off; it assured our

independence and distance from the mundane world's silly inhibitions.

Once we had found a good berth, with a decently working speaker, we

parked the car in it, and turned the motor off.  Almost at once, you slipped

your shoes off and tossed them into the back seat; then you untucked

your shirt from the waistband of your jeans and unbuttoned it frontally.  The

fragrance of your midnight blue socks, beneath frayed, tattered denim cuffs,

began to fill the compartment, and then escaped through the open windows.

I watched the sky continue to fill with those small points of twinkling lights---

massive,  luminous spheres, bodies of immense gravity, inheritors and

occupiers of outer space; further from earth than I could travel in a hundred

lifetimes (what a joke, however, as I could not stand to exist apart from you).

Poets, locally, had named them in perceived constellations, and astronomers had

drawn them on to charts; and each generation longed to know more.  We had been

informed, for years, that certain societal expectations could not be ignored or

frustrated, and that love such as ours violated those principles.  I had often

thought of the stars as celestial beacons---one for each couple like us, for

all the couples like us in this world, accepted by those farthest magistrates of

outer space.  Then, you let me season the night to taste---to taste your

mouth, that place on your thruat that always  caused you to squirm; to

taste your bared torso and both of your nipples; and even (after a bit of

logistical adjustment) the perfect softness that sheathed those ten

morsels, your toes . . . .

J-Called