Tag Archives: erotic

First Encounter

how the mind
finds as much
in memory
as it does
in the infinite hope
of daydreams—

as it is
to imagine
what’s to come,
what encounters
we have
to look
forward to—

it’s the
of my navel
a cup
for your pleasure
that makes me
smile and pause—

and I stop
whatever it is
that needs
to be done
so I can slip
beneath you
once again
when I close my eyes.






Duane Michals, 1969 “The Young Girl’s Dream”


No poem
could convey
what happened
to my body
when I saw yours
for the first time
a single layer
of pretense
or inhibition—
just your eyes
looking into mine
with a kind of hope
that whatever
happened next
would be
the first time—
and not the last.






Photograph by Ansel Adams, 1932, “Rose and Driftwood”


When the mountains
have had enough of you
and send you home sore
and craving sleep
I want to be the balm
that covers you in the dark—
I want you supine beneath me
between my legs and inside
my soft wet warmth—
I want your eyes closed
and your only sensation
to be the slow and prolonged
ecstasy that I will draw out
of your body and into mine.






I am lost
in a ball of darkness
as my eyes close
and my arms pull
my legs to my breasts
and you are the absent
thing I am living without
and all I can do
is wish and imagine
you are in the universe
of my bedroom
taking off your clothes
with a kind of urgency
that is unmistakably
primal and pulsing
and we would last
as long as we could
with our hands exploring
and our lips pressing—
and after my mouth turned you
into the smoothest stone
I would open my eyes
to see yours
waiting for permission
to close
the intolerable gap.




Photo by Deanna Morae

Breakfast Ritual

We’ll never have one.
Never make plans over coffee
to get lost in the anticipation
of our next adventure.
You’ll never stand in the kitchen
making muffins
with the harvest of serviceberries
while I read you the latest bad news
out loud from the newspaper,
which we’ll use to start our campfire
when the sun goes down.
We’ll never marvel at our luck—
how good it was to have arrived
in the universe in the same century
with the same desire to live quietly
among the wild things
that bloom and chirp
and adapt and thrive in a way
that reduces our hubris
to the size of pebbles made smooth
by water and time.
We’ll never know how it feels to hurt
one another with a careless tone,
or an inconsiderate act.
But most regrettably,
my heart will never be expanded
by your experience with loss and love—
which means you’ll never know
how softly my hands can touch
the scars beneath your skin.
And so it’s best to let the fire
burn out and settle into ash
that can be swept away
with the crumbs from those muffins
which I am sure would taste so good.


Photograph by Jack Welpott, 1964

After Party

We were all there
gathered in the bar
some of us dancing
all of us drinking it in—
the high of the past two days—
that Festival of Dangerous Ideas
making it possible
for us to meet in public
for the first time
even though you seemed familiar
as my favorite pair of jeans
and when it was time to part
you insisted on walking me
to my hotel which was not far
and not far enough
because somehow our arms
became linked as we walked
and I didn’t want to disconnect
from your warmth
and your smell—
and when you pulled me into you
under the neon NO VACANCY sign
I heard you whisper
What do we do now?
and I reminded you
that you were married—
and you reminded me
that I was too,
and by that time
it started to rain with a kind of
fervor that felt like a blessing
from one of those forgotten gods
who still had something to prove.

DeMaris Gaunt