Tag Archives: making love

Waiting Room

I am not impatient this time
waiting for my turn
to lay back in the chair and open wide—
there are children whispering loudly
and bells dangling from the door
announcing everyone’s exit and entry
but it all goes on without me
like the volume is turned way down
on just another reality TV show—
I am lost in yesterday.
I am full of the heat that followed us
into the woods and I can only hear
the song of the warblers,
those black and white ones
who provided our sound track
as we kissed on the fallen hickory—
and after I am rattled into alertness
by the sound of my name
I’ve got nothing to do for 15 minutes
but close my eyes
and let both my hands rest on my belly
while I consider where you’ve touched me—
and I don’t even need five fingers to count
the number of times we’ve made love
but in this noisy and populated darkness
I am alone with your body
and we are filling up our hands.








We haven’t
on what they are
since we began
in friendship
months ago
but it’s clear
that making love
(or maybe
it was just sex
to you)
isn’t going to be
the beautiful
that causes
your desire
to lean
in my direction
or provoke
an honest
with the woman
you claim
is too fragile
for the truth.
But I need
to believe
in your integrity—
that it can exist
even if
you aren’t ready
to sign
on anyone’s
dotted line—
so I’ll be
your other love
only if she knows
she’s not
the only one.


“Meridian Street, Thawing Weather,” 1887 by T.C. Steele

Why I Love Him

We don’t need each other, really,
in a desperate kind of way
like high school kids
dying for just one hello in the hallway—
we aren’t betting everything
that the queen of hearts
will give us her blessing
and a happily ever after—
we just know what feels right
right now—
and it happens to be the question mark
our bodies make when we’re still
after making love
and curled up naked and content
beside a fire that is slowly dying.





Painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec “In Bed the Kiss” 1892

No Immunity

Before you undressed
for the first time
in front of the man
you would marry
you believed that whatever
happened next
in that bed before you
would be the final quenching
of your lascivious thirst—
that his skin touching your skin
would drench you
in immunity from this new
and unexpected wish
to let another body
touch and enter yours
in an act that might surpass
what you had been mistaking
for over a decade
as your highest possible bliss.




Painting by Salvador Dali, 1935, “Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus”



I know why
there are
so many words
for the act
of intercourse:
getting it on
making whoopee—
all these words
and phrases
so that
the holy of holies—
Making Love
can never truly
be hijacked
for use
in any bed
or on any blanket
that doesn’t
two people
who are naked
down to their





Photograph by Imogen Cunningham “Two Callas,” 1929


If you were there
and I was there too
in a proximity
that allowed us to touch
each other in the flesh
instead of with words
I wonder where it would be—
if it would be on sand
or under trees
or under sun or moon?
Would we feel
something like this—
like need, like hunger,
like heaven?
I wonder how long
it would take to decide
whether or not we would
want to make love
the way we make love
in my imagination
on nights like this
when you’re there
and I’m here wondering
if my proximity to you
will ever change—
and if such a change
might change the way
I want you—
which is badly, and now.


DeMaris Gaunt


Photo by Deanna Morae