Preview Poems


“The Birds, the Bees, and the Boudoir”


1998 at the Old Mill

He hesitantly stepped toward me, half-expecting me to stop him, to tell him it wasn’t okay, to keep us from moving to the next level. Instead, I stood there looking deeply into his eyes, being careful not to blink, sliding my bra straps down on each side, removing the clasp from behind.

And as my bra fell, so did his gaze. For a moment, as if trapped in time, we just looked at each others’ bodies. Then, as if small explosives detonated in our spirits, we launched towards each other in full fury, laying passionate kiss upon kiss on each other.

Our hands, sweaty and inexperienced, touched places we frequently fantasized about. Lips kissed moist skin, forbidden places, tasting the flavors of our love. His eyes scanning every fleshy surface and stopping for just a second to scan my eyes, looking for approval or perhaps advice. Our noses filled with musk and heat and sweat as we listened to the melody our bodies created, slapping, pulsing, grinding—

waiting. Waiting for an end to all of our sadness and loneliness, our abuse, our hunger. He touched me gently like a lazy summer’s breeze. Gently enough, that in the aftermath of lost innocence, it reminded me to breathe.


A Long Deep Stare

The silence grows as we sit staring into each others eyes. His brown blending into my brown, intertwining thoughts; emotions. Not a word spoken, although volumes have crept through our lashes in blinks and our lips in sighs. Our bodies: tense and conservative, then relaxed and more comfortable in our breathing. His hand brushed against mine, sending the highest volt straight up my spine and down into my panties.

Seems still that silence can only accomplish so much…



And the world’s finally getting over it.
Those teen-aged queens with cum stained sheets
and flower comforters.

And mommy never realized she was doing more laundry.
And daddy high-fived all the boys.

She sits with mascara drenched stretch marks
running down her cheek
skin stretched thin, tired of crying tears,
the well dried up
now she just dry-weeps.

Really just moaning now,
hoping somehow God can decipher these sighs and grunts
from bent backs in the middle of the night while they bump.

Small whimpers encourage him,
but really it’s a cry for help.
Her soul is slipping away
and she keeps letting it go,

letting it go,

letting it…


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