Beauty Walks

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Maybe you
were the first groove laid down.
The template.

The exposition
that became a story
in itself.

Maybe this
is the one
that was meant to be told
all along.

Our bed is a boat
on the Sea of Cortez.
The bay is silent, dark with moonlight
and the howls of dogs,
entranced by the romance
of a coyote.
I replay
within the old tape deck of my heart
Frida’s longing for Diego.

Nighttime turns and tosses
to the pulse
of Earth’s blood;
the sea.
Her tide is overflowing
into salt beds,
veins of white upon the land.

I float
in your strong arms,
safe and secure,
luxuriating in scents of pipe smoke
and sheepskin,
deliriously content.

Beauty walks
beneath my eyelids,
master works of ethereal colors frescoed
in sacred brush strokes
upon the cave walls
of my dreaming mind.

Being with you
feels just like coming home
to a place
I never was before.

Latin Lover

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Tonight I went salsa dancing at El Palomar Ballroom,

watched the couples flowing

rhythmically together,

thrusting and twirling,

entwining like vines,

heels sliding gracefully

across the floor,

and I could not help but think

of you.

 

Of how at the club

you held me close against your chest,

wrapped your arms around me,

squeezed the rounds of my breasts,

your hands large, like pads of nopal,

and you kissed my ear,

and roughly spanked my ass

and said:

“I’ll dance with you

in bed.”

 

My latin lover,

you are so sabroso,

so spicy,

so rrrrrico,

so mmmmm…

 

You captivate me

with your hips

that sway

against mine

to the fluttering heartbeat

of the Earth Mother.

 

A glass of sangria.

Por favor.

Another shot

and I am drunk

on your caliente beat,

your fino brown skin,

your suave moves,

your animal lust.

When you want me,

you WANT me.

 

You are primal,

you are graceful,

you are so macho

but tender

like a squash blossom

and I want

to dance with you

all night long

until el pinche tequila sunrise.