Adolescent Stems
Late mid-life street woman she is...
I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still shaped like a Boticelli urn, wrapped
in arms diaphanous in flesh and heat,
fanned banana leaves swaying to
latin notes while cooking fried bamboo
shoots, her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic fly: how she pinched
my cheek with her tapered fingers still
wrinkled pink in grasses floating
on her quivering body.. .
somehow, she gave me this
epiphany of riding with my own instinct,
the slow wave of breaths gently drifting
through a young rosiness of my adolescent
stems... if i knew how to swirl in the wakening
glides of inner flow , it was her circling baked hips
winding and bellying in nights and morns
of her own natural sashays...
How i long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still
blazing among plucked banana leaves
of female revelry or finery… I tell myself,
there is no age when her contour sways
in places where her eyes dazzle
with her near floating, tanning limbs,
of how she made me feel unashamed
being just who I am without much caution
or youthful pride; humbled so by her inherent
moon-full grace…
©
... ..............
Skat's Contest---Any Old Poem #4
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