Lavender Nude
                                                                                                    by
                                                                                       Daniel E. Blackston 

Let's make our skin paper,
write with fingertip and tongue
the dirtiest poems we can imagine:
a sonnet scribbled with sweat
and breath, blank verse that tumbles us,
clear and wet, to a flash
where all flesh bends to curves 
and all curves bend to flesh.
Let's make myths of the smells
that pump from armpit, neck, and thigh,
find a simile -- like lightning -- to describe
how our bones seem to blaze,
how our spines feel suddenly
plugged straight into the Divine.
Let's rhyme, over and over, the slap 
of skin with our small moans,
slam ourselves dizzy as our love-songs
spin over comforter and pillow,
each gasp a nonce that prestos 
out a new name for pleasure.
Thrust after thrust, our onomatopoeias
define the plunge, the sizzle sting,
as we ride deep to caesura, 
a bee flown honey-deep 
in a lavender flower. 

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