May Tortures (#poetry #lust #spring)

To P.M.S.

May, 1975

it’s a cruel eve

with a satin breeze

and a moon scent

and the kiss of leaves

that is barely laughter

and somewhere away

down highway miles

sculpted in twilight

(I can feel them

fleeing beneath

your well-governed wheels)

the fields swell,

rolling and ripe,

as wild and warm

as flesh.

In each breath

they shape themselves,

rippling and real

as this porch and pen—

the tingle of skin

on skin, and a cover

of unruled green.

I am queen.

Your arms and the field-grass

both hold the press

or my shape forever.

this weather...

this wind...

this midsummer-seeming—

this May

is a devil;

this heavenly air

will kill me

with dreaming—

I’ll die

of hunger.