To Luca (IV)
Often our bodies speak the same language
which you then express so gloriously in poetry
re-evoking the exuberant joy of our experience.
Yet sometimes, my Luca Xifonia, your golden mouth
praises me so lavishingly and elaborately
that my soul, used to a much simpler speech,
wonders where its mate has hidden himself.
She reaches her hand like the moon its
silver bridge across the ocean to find the casket
wherein your heart is locked and where
is its key.
—Sonia Fuentes
Curtal Sonnet
How can I go-around our love?
Our odyssey flouts Mystery:
Each stage is no final remove;
Each move we make moves by degree.
The architect of our voyage
Designed also orange-black Monarchs,
Whose migration’s eternal age
Is our desire, as each flight arcs
From separation to conjunction—
Or safekeeping, the church of Bliss,
Where lovers meet one compunction,
Greet, and kiss like evangelists.
Simpatico is it, to arrive,
Home, to Love, wherever you live.
Facets
Once Love surfaces, two faces form one
Foundation, surfing upon each other,
And two-backed Sex secures formal beauty,
While struggling tongues, twinning, chat and back-chat.
Perfumed phantasm of fluttering voice,
In our jiggling, giggling, wriggling darkness,
Warren of red wine and groans, we mingle
Like musical notes, jazzy and soulful.
Face it! We’re as captive as harmonies—
Or integrated drunkenness of dark rum
And white rum…. Chuckles skim the surface
Of our moaning friction (not facetious).
After parching speech, we take wet desserts,
Facing our most succulent intercourse.
Absent Her
My valentines are irrelevant if
Only wisped air trembles my flesh and clothes;
Nor do I dream domum dulce domum*:
Without her, this world feels enduring cold.
I keep a clear, catastrophic diary,
Bit by bit pure, the pages gone vacant:
What can I write, if not her rapturous
Nakedness, vital nakedness, what Love bares?
Her sassiest lipstick is my tongue—
And my pen is sterile if it is mute.
Absent her, sobs catch, thorny, in my throat.
Why fetch sweet meats; carry in cold wine?
All is Error if she’s not here. Sans elle,
There’s no reality that isn’t dream
* Latin: Home, sweet home
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