Enough thought of what may be – or not be.
Think not the night away in an awkward dream.
Take time into your hands with urgency and sculpt it
as you please,
but do not sit in contemplation
of that which has yet to be.
Go on to live that which you have not yet seen.
Take yourself into action before the next hour passes.
And for a shower I go,
undressing of my sleeping clothes
in stale dress from a stale night ago,
removing my bra
and my breasts hang free,
and the air embraces—
my legs – between.
In length of mirror,
I look at myself over and from below
imagining what he has seen of me on show.
My fingers touch my flesh to feel what he has felt.
I put a finger up close to my nose softly, so soft,
my skin which his tongue has tasted and preened.
Had he not touched me from head to toe
and touched me deep below,
I would not have felt in places where
I had never before felt myself go.
I reach to touch my breasts in sight of this,
taste my salted hand,
bite my skin with tease,
lick my shoulder wet
to feel this wet against my cheek.
I am woman – all woman.
And for this moment, I am every woman,
with every piece of me in harmony
in feel of the smoothness of myself…
my body in form; curves and rolls as fruit in swirls,
ripened and ready to pick and devour—
succulent, delicate, and dripping delicious.
Suddenly, I stammer a sigh in voice of my lie,
for so often I feel nothing of the woman inside—
to be a woman, not of body but of mind – a dream.
Rather, I be the famished fem of the teething and hungry kind,
and in bad dreams, the droves of men may come and go
yet, still, my heart be lone
in wish of nothing more than myself as whole
and to be not a beggar or thief anymore.
Drenched by naked thoughts such as these,
I turn the rain upon my head to appease my thirsting senses—
warm and wet, the sweats of the steaming shower
clear the clouded hour.
Out of the shower and into fresh clothes,
I costume in tones of night—
in satin and lace underwear I step.
My dress fans about my shaven legs,
hair of sweet vanilla scent dried to its very end,
dance upon my shoulders bared.
I am a vision of beauty,
though neither a simple vision
nor a simple beauty am I.
Immaculate and admired—
admire me in passing,
and I will consider myself, imperfectly,
yet, I know myself to be the perfect pose
with features so unlikely and of womanly pulp.
How do I not stir a man?
Having spoken not a sentence of story with me,
one is bound to the core of my intrigue.
So, gather ye quickly by my side—
and I will wonder why.
Poetry © Linda Cull