Archive for intimacy


Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on August 31, 2009 by 1writegirl

For Mikey and Smokey

They are

This woman and man

He touches her hair
As if it’s woven of
Black gold

She looks into his eyes
Like they hold
All the answers

His hand reaches out and grazes
Her arm
While walking or sitting
Or standing in line

And she falls asleep each night
On his chest
When he pulls her on top of him

Get closer

I know for a fact that
They argue at times
Each understands the other is

Yet he sees an angel
A goddess in her
And she sees a hero
A man worth devotion

In a godless world devoid of substance
Inclined toward
Frenetic accumulation
Of that which will

Tear you down

They have set aside

Of greener grass
Of biding time and
Playing fields

Choosing instead
To see that angel
To adore that hero

And embrace in its limelight
The strength from being


Warm Crevices

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2009 by 1writegirl

She showers after work, puts on fresh clothes and a dash of perfume, and makes a pot of coffee. She casually crosses the street, two steaming cups in hand, something tucked under her arm, and walks up three sturdy two by fours with cinder blocks between them, makeshift stairs.

He comes home to find her on the top step, her back reclined against the RV door, with a novel in her hands and a notebook beside her which she picks up every few minutes and scribbles several lines in.

“Man, I’m beat,” he says and wipes his brow with the back of a grimy hand holding a baseball cap by the brim.

She looks up and smiles at him, and his face softens into a grin. She raises an eyebrow. “I’m lookin’ for a guy named Ernie Marinara,” she says, with the twang of a New Yawk accent. Her tone and demeanor are detached, as if they are strangers, belying a deepening intimacy they are both still getting used to. “Are you him, by any chance?”

He puts one foot onto the second step and bends down, leaning into it. “Who wansta know?” he replies.

“I got somethin’ for him, is all,” she says, in a breathy and suggestive Marilyn Monroe kind of voice. He laughs, and sinks heavily down beside her. The board makes a loud creaking sound as if in protest of their combined weight. She hands him a mug. “Coytesy of some dame across the street.”

He takes a swallow, then looks at her. “Nice dame,” he says. “And kinda cute. I seen her out walkin’ a time or two.”

She blushes faintly and grins, then he leans his shoulder into hers and says, “You think she might like me, or somethin?”

“Or somethin,’” she says, leaning gently into him.

He scratches his head and yawns, then stretches his tired, muscular legs out in front of him.

In the faint beginnings of dusk the slinky grey form of a neighbor’s cat springs out from behind a bush, then just as quickly darts off. In the distance, maybe three blocks away or so, a car screeches. A Pacific breeze dances around them, a seductive temptress bidding them release the tensions of the day, slide into the peace of the evening. In the warm crevice of space between their bodies, two hands reach out and find the other.

Haiku #13: Walk with me

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 14, 2009 by 1writegirl

Come sleep beside me
Lose your fear of what’s unknown
If only till dawn

Take a walk with me
Let your hand remember mine
If only till noon

Eat and drink with me
Laugh, talk or make not a sound
If only till dusk