Making Love
With Our Socks On

To seduce me
you read
"The Travels of Babar"
in bed
in the morning.
Feed me peach tea and
croissants with
strawberry jam.


You have renamed
all the parts of my body
that never before knew
a gentle word and
made each one of them
your sweetheart.


You call to them
as you lay beside me,
let your skin
love mine.


Then your kiss
like that first
crumbling kiss
that dissolved me
into a dust, fragrant,
musical and potent.


I taste your
pink icing nipples
through a web
of white lace.


Leave the panties
on. You climb
on top and
ride me until
they're soaked and
I can't resist
peeling them away
to touch your
silky folds.


Then I take you
in a rush
even before
our socks
come off.
Even better
half-dressed.


Birds fly from
your eyes.
Your mouth is
a hot soup
on a dead-winter
dusk. I taste
you again and
again.


Afterwards,
you make a nest
of me with
pillows and bedsheets.
I watch you,
my Lolita,
in one surviving sock,
as you search
for quarters
to wash
my car.


Copyright by the poet 2000