The evening we first kissed flew my thoughts into the sky, though my body stayed alert, saying yes and yes, and yes to you. We sat on the davenport, kissing like weedy teenagers barely sated by smorgasbord. It was easy to fall for those smooth vermilion borders, the light brush of soft whiskers against my chin, your warm golden scent. Still, you repeat the story, how I said: I think we should kiss. And we did for over an hour. Your flavor lingers like rustic bread, crusty, yeasty, salty; notes sweet on the back of my tongue that night and still. Now I know how much the granary of your love quenches my thirst, feeding me in a way I never suspected I hungered.
Those of you who know me, know that I write poetry as well as fiction and creative non-fiction. Recently, three of my poems were selec...
Mr. Trump, the President Says “Mexico’s not sending its best.” And about that wall “I’ll build the best of all.”
Again, the missing crystal comes to mind, dainty glasses so tiny that one could crush a cordial glass in the palm of the hand. I reason...