Meeting Places II

 

Meeting Places II

I tapped my fire engine red nails on the cheeks of white porcelain,
my coffee steaming in incense spirals from it’s lip
like offerings sprawled at the chiseled stone feet of a statue.
The warmth as I cupped my hands around the waist
seeping through me… like the hungry womb
begging to be filled, consumed, placated.
He sat a couple of tables from me.
Nothing auspicious about the clothes draped from his tall frame,
a surprisingly serene expression painted on his face
as the world bustled around him,
chairs squealing at the pavement
as people came and went,
time slipping past as coffee sips drew on yesterday morning.
He ordered another coffee as the waitress passed,
taking a moment to scan the streetscape,
barely noticing the two pretty girls
seated at the table next to him, long tanned legs
lazily leaning towards him, their flirty giggles touching
his cheek like butterfly kisses. I noticed
the fluidity of his fingers as he rolled a cigarette,
sure, calm, knowing, suspended.
He placed the cigarette in his full lips and lit it.
Again, smoke spiraled like incense offerings.
My mind slipped to the stroking of flesh,
the hunger those fingers could draw
from my aching breasts, awakening something within me,
confusing the senses at the ease at which they would separate
the petals of my flower and touch of it’s moisture.
I imagined them touching every uncharted recess of my body,
playing my passion with the cunning of a beast,
tracing the lines with confident brushstrokes
then shifting in waves, pressing firmly
into my tender naked flesh, kneading it until it submitted
to his will before drawing it into his mouth
biting, licking, kissing, consuming me
like a piece of ripened fruit, my hunger rising like a madness
until I was starved of breath, throbbing
the scent of my salty honey spilling on soft thighs.
Jolted back to reality as someone reached for my sugar jar
knocking a spoon that clattered to the ground unceremoniously,
I noticed he had risen to meet the hand of
a beautiful young woman. Her smile
drowning out the drum n bass of
traffic and idle nothingness chatter.
His fingers tracing the lines of her face,
noses touching as they paused there, the world shuffling by,
their breath becoming one. Like watercolours spilled upon the page
their fingertips meet, moments passing like winter sun
edging over a frozen lake, then slowly,
ever so slowly fingers tangled together like the roots of an old tree.
I took a sip of bathwater warm coffee and wondered what that felt like.

(c) A Hannan

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The Business of Gardening

Some people sell their soul
for a handful of dirt,
With this I become a gardener.
In Autumn I tend my garden
burying an array of bulbs,
insular as Winter sets in
last seasons individual dies.
On sharing a sacred heart
as fern fronds slowly unfold, I
rotate layers under sunshine
while stem and petal scent
a pairing, I returned that dirt
knowing my value. Vivid colour
cutting blue skies, I become
a bird opening my wings
and taking flight, returning dust
to soil. Don’t talk to me
about anything but the earth,
the sunshine and the sweet taste
of honey. I became a gardener
knowing, Spring brings renewal.

(c) A Hannan