Olive Oil

“Hum you five choruses of rich, green sea. When olive tarts your tongue, dream, think on me.” --G.R.                                                                             *** Tonight, she will dream olive oil Poured onto his broad barrel chest Slathered with her own open palms Behind his ears, his shaved bald head, His nape, his throat, his shoulder blades. And with warm fingertips, she will trace His parted lips, half smiling, Pungent, peppery breath, sensuous.                                                                             *** (bjanepr@yahoo.com to G.R.:  ***Disclaimer/Warning: every poet I know is a scoundrel, a thief, and/or a liar.***)                                                                             *** “I am told poetic thievery is the highest form of flattery,” I banter. “Steal from me,” you smile. Take from me, anything, anything, I would rather you quietly implore of me.                                                                             *** Here I am increasingly aware of my thighs tensed as my eyes outline with perfect accuracy the musculature of your belly, the circumference of your ribcage. Here I am envisioning my ankles interlocked at your sacrum. Here, impressed by your large hands, I am calculating the distance, tip to tip, from thumb to index finger of each, encircling my waist.                                                                             *** “…dream, think on me.” “…dream, think on me.”                                                                             *** I say, liberate me, liberate me, that the sky above be my ceiling, that the forest be my four walls. Imprison me, imprison me in this expansive earth. You say, confine me, confine me, that the ceiling be my open sky, that these four walls be my forest. That in the smallest space may I find the truest liberation.                                                                             *** Here I must suppress the desire to violently undress you.                                                                             *** (Eileen to breyes@ahschc.org: “Olive oil...it does go well with bald heads...doesn’t it, Barbara Jane?”)                                                                             *** Tonight she will dream of him, bathed slick, Thick, and green, tart to her tongue, his heft And girth cold pressed between her open thighs.                                                                             *** Centimeters from your skin, such a vastness to be traversed. Even in a thunderstorm, I can detect the scent of olives in your exhale.                                                                             *** The sky tears itself open, Threatens to swallow us whole. Electrical charge pours into earth. Then, the purest stillness.                                                                             *** And in the morning, She will imagine his taste Still fresh on her fingers, Perfect marks of teeth Imprinting her softest skin.                                                                             *** But if I am a liar…