Melanie Miller: poem
IF I WERE A LESBIAN I'D BE IN LOVE WITH TOMA
and then I'd go down on her,
finger her blonde hair that hangs
between puckered shoulder blades, streaked
and highlighted from island sun,
the scent of cheap shampoo
from the dollar store, tastes
like a tropical fruit cocktail-
papayas, oranges and maraschino cherries,
and it makes me want to learn
to suck her, to love
her pussy with soft lips and sweet tongue
kisses. I would examine each fiber,
every tendon, empowered by her
sculpted ballerina body, vitrified
and breakable. I've always thought
her eyes were the sea and could capture
anyone. With each kiss,
I will tell her this. "I am with you,"
I whisper.
This would be the quintessential
millennial friendship; countless days
reveling in mutually nervous stomachs and crooked teeth
revealed by ample smiles and sentimental sex.
We could finally ease the burden of living, clearing our shelves
of paperback self-help books and feminist discourse,
and our prevailing bible, The Technique of the Love Affair,
making room for familial accouterments:
photo journals, framed memories,
sweet liqueurs and a bread machine.
I want to protect her,
or would that imply ownership?
Instead, I'd instruct her, embellishing her powers. First,
look down to the ground, show only
your lids, slowly unwrap them, catch
the eyes of the giver, then you are the victor.
We'd share these secrets of sexual prowess, how to's
in the book of conquest and devour,
and the we'd cast our own, writing the first
How to Love in the New Millennium, rolling our lissome bodies
across alluring laps, laughing
until we'd fall asleep, ignoring traffic sounds
and locusts, devouring
one another in a dream, our eyes closed
to each other
until the morning dew.
Melanie Miller is a dancer and a poet. This is her first appearance in Gnome.
