To Luca
You drilled into rock—
and broke through;
sank a shaft—
steaming, seamy,
to my core—
mother lode,
pure pitch of riches
only you can mine
or stake or pilfer—
finding yourself ever
voluptuously repaid—
the deeper and dirtier you get—
in the blessed going in
and coming forth.
—Sonia
To Luca (II)
I really don’t know how to seduce a man.
I wonder how other women do it?
(Is it really just a matter of hiding one thing
and showing a bit of another?)
I’m guileless in my styles.
I don’t dress to entice;
yet, everyone’s surprised when I state my age.
Is my talk sexy enough, smooth enough?
Is it ale that seduces a man,
that gives him “beer goggles”
so that he’ll screw any hole?
Is it perfume that tempts?
A jasmine poetic?
All of the above?
Depending?
—Sonia
Climate
Like exiles—fugitives, we go from sunned
Copenhagen to drizzly Istanbul,
With our pitiless hunger for Beauty.
Driven by Desire, look how we zigzag!
The sun’s light massages darkness,
Shadows: A satisfactory inferno!
The new tempest is us: Sweet, little bitch
Who loves a buttery, battering ram!
How else to establish our copper
And ivory equilibrium, measure—
Scintilla—of kisses? You bring fresh heat,
Fresh, girlish trembling, and fresh, wet kisses,
That refresh all: Your weather’s our climate.
Climactic….
To Gibraltar
Let us go, with gusto, to Gibraltar—
That sea-indented solid (its waves
Lively and cold, those ivory-tipped, turquoise-
Tint tides), and take wine in bottomless gulps.
You’ll curl up there—a cat-like curlicue—
And I’ll mix Champagne with sparkling water,
Claiming a Mediterranean grace.
(My great coat can double as our mattress.)
Gibraltar will be plush winds and rustic.
The sea’s vigorous glitter will dazzle,
But not warm. We’ll have each other for that—
Plus the sirocco pushing to Venice
Ex Morocco: It must pass through our bed,
Careen through jungle, pick up our horse smell.
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