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:
Recreation
Coming together
it is easier to work
after our bodies
meet
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
