A poem he makes of her 

 April 22, 2021

One night the poet voice messaged her a text full of Ahs and Ohs, mouths and mermaids, thighs and throbbing. His voice, impetious and urgent, monotonous in one way, unpredictable in another, penetrated her ears and made her body vibrate ever so subtly. 

She loves his voice. 

Every morning when she wakes there is a new poem for her. Every morning she would send one back, so he can awake to her voice. 

Their love flies back and forth across the ocean every day, from one continent to the other, like a tireless origami bird. 

But what should she respond to all the seductiveness that pierced her ears and her heart? 

She searched for a poem and found "Recreation" by Audre Lord: 


Coming together  

it is easier to work   

after our bodies   


paper and pen

neither care nor profit

whether we write or not

but as your body moves

under my hands   

charged and waiting   

we cut the leash

you create me against your thighs   

hilly with images

moving through our word countries   

my body

writes into your flesh

the poem

you make of me.

Touching you I catch midnight   

as moon fires set in my throat   

I love you flesh into blossom   

I made you

and take you made

into me.

That's how she feels about the poet. 

A poem he makes of her. 

He blindfolds her and takes her through his word countries.

And when she comes back, the fading touch of his hand still on her palm, her own country is crowded with his words. And no space is left, no space.

That's how much she loves him. 

Photo by DAVIDCOHEN on Unsplash