Luncheon Service
I lay here feeling like a Rueben's woman,
ripe and indulgent breasts pressed against the mattress,
still feeling a pressure that is almost a memory of your hands.
Soft and succulent thoughts flow through my brain
Like heavy Amazon water dripping in some forgotten grotto.
A place that only a shaman knows the secrets of.
I cradle arms around the pillow that smells of you.
I rub my face against the case and yawn.
Feeling like a fat kitten,
I grin a slow smug curve across my mouth.
Full and heavy feeling lips
that wonder, if after rain
do Saguaros feel as if
a lover kissed them hard?
Humid sheets pushed down
past shoulders open to the fan blades breeze.
A stirring of another kind of current there.
The contrast of heat and chill
makes this feeling, these feelings
more luscious still.
And I can't recall the last time passion felt this heavy,
like deep dark bayou water from a dream.
I love the feeling of my belly after love,
Its warmth like the end of a yawn.
And my heart still fills my entire body
The inside of my thigh and the curve in my palm
still beating against the bed.
The pulse like a slow gigantic metronome
in some sacred place.
A deep thrumming pound
reverberating against thick blood velvet curtains.
Causing stained glass to quiver.
Holy water in the baptismal fount to hum.
Thick incense in the air of my awareness,
Gregorian echoes of chants
that filled this space in a past forgotten time.
I hear you close the door and start the car.
Then I think of what I need to do before school bells ring at days end.
I stretch and look at wrinkled spotted hands that never lie.
For a moment I am stunned, then I smile.
This 40-year-old woman still feels 14.
And her walk may limp at times.
But her spirit still can fly.
Annie Miller Monday, October 02, 2000 1:33:32 PM
Luncheon Service
I lay here feeling like a Rueben's woman,
ripe and indulgent breasts pressed against the mattress,
still feeling a pressure that is almost a memory of your hands.
Soft and succulent thoughts flow through my brain
Like heavy Amazon water dripping in some forgotten grotto.
A place that only a shaman knows the secrets of.
I cradle arms around the pillow that smells of you.
I rub my face against the case and yawn.
Feeling like a fat kitten,
I grin a slow smug curve across my mouth.
Full and heavy feeling lips
that wonder, if after rain
do Saguaros feel as if
a lover kissed them hard?
Humid sheets pushed down
past shoulders open to the fan blades breeze.
A stirring of another kind of current there.
The contrast of heat and chill
makes this feeling, these feelings
more luscious still.
And I can't recall the last time passion felt this heavy,
like deep dark bayou water from a dream.
I love the feeling of my belly after love,
Its warmth like the end of a yawn.
And my heart still fills my entire body
The inside of my thigh and the curve in my palm
still beating against the bed.
The pulse like a slow gigantic metronome
in some sacred place.
A deep thrumming pound
reverberating against thick blood velvet curtains.
Causing stained glass to quiver.
Holy water in the baptismal fount to hum.
Thick incense in the air of my awareness,
Gregorian echoes of chants
that filled this space in a past forgotten time.
I hear you close the door and start the car.
Then I think of what I need to do before school bells ring at days end.
I stretch and look at wrinkled spotted hands that never lie.
For a moment I am stunned, then I smile.
This 40-year-old woman still feels 14.
And her walk may limp at times.
But her spirit still can fly.
Annie Miller Monday, October 02, 2000 1:33:32 PM
Lunch Service
I lay here feeling like a Ruben's woman,
ripe and indulgent breasts pressed against the mattress,
still feeling a pressure that is almost a memory of your hands.
Soft and succulent thoughts flow through my brain
Like heavy Amazon water dripping in some forgotten grotto.
A place that only a shaman knows the secrets of.
I cradle arms around the pillow that smells of you.
I rub my face against the case and yawn.
Feeling like a fat kitten,
I grin - a slow smug curve across my mouth.
Full and heavy feeling lips that wonder,
after rain do Saguaros feel
as if a lover kissed them hard?
Humid sheets pushed down
past shoulders open to the fan blades breeze.
A stirring of another kind of current there.
The contrast of heat and chill
makes this feeling, these feelings
more luscious still.
And I can't recall the last time passion felt this heavy,
like deep dark bayou water from a dream.
I love the feeling of my belly after love,
Its warmth like the end of a yawn.
And my heart still fills my entire body
The inside of my thigh and the curve in my palm
still beating against the bed.
The pulse like a slow gigantic metronome
in some sacred place.
A deep thrumming pound
reverberating against thick blood velvet curtains.
Causing stained glass to quiver.
Holy water in the baptismal fount to hum.
Thick incense in the air of my awareness,
Gregorian echoes of chants
that filled this space in a past forgotten time.
I hear you close the door and start the car.
Then I think of what I need to do
before school bells ring at days end.
I stretch and look at wrinkled spotted hands that never lie.
For a moment I am stunned, then I smile.
This 40-year-old woman still feels 14.
And her walk may limp at times.
But her spirit still can fly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lunch Service
I lay here feeling like a Ruben's woman,
ripe and indulgent breasts pressed against the mattress,
still feeling a pressure that is almost a memory of your hands.
Soft and succulent thoughts flow through my brain
Like heavy Amazon water dripping in some forgotten grotto.
A place that only a shaman knows the secrets of.
I cradle arms around the pillow that smells of you.
I rub my face against the case and yawn.
Feeling like a fat kitten,
I grin, a slow smug curve across my mouth.
Full and heavy feeling lips that wonder,
after rain do Saguaros feel
as if a lover kissed them hard?
Humid sheets pushed down
past shoulders open to the fan blades breeze.
A stirring of another kind of current there.
The contrast of heat and chill
makes this feeling, these feelings
more luscious still.
And I can't recall the last time passion felt this heavy,
like deep dark bayou water from a dream.
I love the feeling of my belly after love,
its warmth like the end of a yawn.
And my heart still fills my entire body;
the inside of my thigh and the curve in my palm
still beating against the bed.
The pulse like a slow gigantic metronome
in some sacred place.
A deep thrumming pound
reverberating against thick blood red velvet curtains.
Causing stained glass to quiver:
holy water in the baptismal fount to hum.
Ancient memories float like thick incense
in the air of my awareness,
Gregorian echoes of chants
that filled this space in a past forgotten time.
I hear you close the door and start the car.
Then I think of what I need to do
before school bells ring at days end.
I stretch and look at wrinkled spotted hands that never lie.
For a moment I am stunned, then I smile.
This 40-year-old woman still feels 14.
And her walk may limp at times.
But her spirit still can fly.
Annie Miller Monday, October 02, 2000 1:33:32 PM
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