the wetness

The Wetness

I wanted to write a simple poem
about the wetness between a woman's legs

and what kind of holy moment it is
when the man's hand quietly moves south

over the smooth curve of the belly
into the shade of that other hemisphere

and his fingertips find hidden in dark fur
the seam already expectant in its moistness.

I wanted to write about that moment
as if it was full of incense,

and monks holding up their Latin like a torch
deep inside a cavern of Gregorian chant,

but if I write that, someone will inevitably say what
has that romantic foofaw got to do

with the beleaguered realtities of love
or with the biological exigencies of lubrication

or with the vast, retarded hierarchies of human suffering?

And someone else will add
that the man's hand
represents the historical hunter-gatherer tradition

invading the valley of the woman's body
with the obsolete presumptions of possession,

whereas the woman's body is known to be
the starting place of agriculture,

doing just fine, thank you, by itself,

until the man's hand barges into her Shangri-La,
and tramples her zucchinis and tomatoes.

But to the man, the wetness is a blessing
for which there is no history;

a coin that cannot be counterfeit,

and when the man's fingers reach it,
the wetness ripples upwards like a volt,
a cool wind, an annunciation

and he tastes it,
as if his hand was a tongue
he had sent ahead of him.

I wanted to write a poem about
the wetness
between a woman's legs,

but it got complicated in language.
It is a wetness the man would make for himself
if he could

- if he could only reach
that part of himself
which has been dry for years;

if he could only show
a part of what he feels
when he finds out

he is not a thousand miles from home.
Then he will not have to go

into the country of desire alone.

~Tony Hoagland. from Application for Release from the Dream

there is a story that goes with this, but it can wait for another time ... xxx


a thematic post

From Blossoms

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat. 

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach. 

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

~ by  Li-Young Lee