Sex and The Seasons

Sex and the Seasons

You saying I love you with a cowboy hat
tied to your neck, speaking of our Ruidosan roots,
the way New Mexico appears in early morning.
Studying the soft trail of your stomach
where a hundred ingrown hairs
surround one mole, near your penis.
The scent of flapjacks and beer
from earlier in the eve, encompassing
my bedroom, in a vault before Easter
near the Vatican in Rome. The vines have grown
purple and yellow lilies, one petal falls to my face,
I am smiling; the scene of the redwood mountains
in the fall. My stomach to your stomach,
you can feel my breasts, the tiny
hairs which erupt each time your breath
hits my ear and mentions beauty, how
your dark eyes and dark hair remind me
of fame in L.A. The curvature of a woman,
appreciated, where my hip buckles, in and then out,
your fingertips sliding along the barest of skin
and starting, slowly, like the moon’s fall

after Christmas, to be one in the other,
your length arising from my bedpost
and beginning, sharing the roots of your culture,
the dance of Cherokee Indians under the sky, crying
like wolves over happiness, a mother engraving my
name in your blood, soft trail of the summer,
to start the fishing for the first bite of
April, where we collapse into the seasons,
and depart from love,
the last uncertainty of the other universe. 

- © Lara Ann Frazier