A vacation naptime poem. We are packing up again, to travel to a wedding reception. Lots of schlepping during this vacation. The girls are getting car-restless.
For some reason, today I have boobies on the brain. First I re-read the sexiest poem ever written, thanks to my friend Katie, ee cummings’ “I Will Wade Out” :
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
Whoa. That’s hot type. Anyhow, I’ve been thinking about that, those “sleeping curves”, and also trying on a few dresses for the wedding party. My HP’s college friends will be there, and I was thinking that would be an appropriate time to find out the power of the new ta-tas. I never had cleavage before, so I don’t know how to work it. I don’t even really own clothing that allows me to show it off the way I want. I worked hard for these suckers. I want them to be appreciated. But that is a complicated feeling.
That got me thinking about the history of cleavage, which brought me to this:
Oh, boobies. How we are mesmerized. So, I think I’m going to have to write another ta-ta poem. This is likely to happen a couple more times. Stare with me.
Stare With Me
Stare with me now, into the bouncing house they’ve named Funland, fling down on the galactic pillows and tee-hee in the big joy, without the camera we’d laugh without seduction, we the jumpers. We’d jump and fly back in full and comfortable knowledge of the catching, we’d catch the scent and be imprinted, we’d led our lids fall down in flutters, and we’d sleep so hard. Stare with me and forget the gaze growing far in the distance, forget the body and remember the galaxy pressed firm against the mouthtop, forget the impressions and comparisons to mountains, remember the milksweet minutes, only for minutes. Stare with me now at the bewitching concentric, the great shades of skin in circles and sweet and fearsome lines, stare with, no, at me. At me, quilted. Stare at me like Helen, are we sure it was the face that launched ships, because what’s up there on the prow? Grant me the complications of your gaze to complete my wordless song, sometimes I speak in skin and limbs, sometimes I speak in the curves and faultlines, sometimes all pieces become prominent and call out. Call out to sleeping mouths and eyes, call out to the sleeping fingers, call out to the swell and sleeping tides, sometimes I call out with my sex. Just listen. Just listen now, to the sounds of this body, hard-earned and ready to speak, glimpse quick the inhalations and be bewitched in the wingbeat minutes, this is the gaze, this is the folding of newfound curves on a bursting soul, this is our plummage. This is our forgotten flaunting, this is the language of flesh on bone, this is speaking in pretty cotton and linens, the tongue of flashing recognition that gets us back, way back, to when it was all a big mystery.
Funland. Ta-tas are complicated. That’s what I’ve got this afternoon. Happy Thursday!