For little more than a girl I have traveled the unaware.
The kitchen, cold.
Blue smoke haze.
Hash oil anointing a hand-rolled cigarette.
Norman smiles broadly and gestures,
still at the same table where we met hours earlier.
I decline his offer.
Had we a common language, the silence would be awkward.
As would my nakedness, had it not been overcome by thirst.
For little more than a girl, I have traveled the unaware.
Slipping graciously to the warmth of Lizbet.
Early May, my land cloaked in flowers.
Road north, opened wide with longing.
To a land, still white with late snows.
Only my motorcycle, only it, armored against biting winds.
Quietly, ice floes retreat on the St. Lawrence.
Slipping graciously to the warmth of the Bay.
Deep fog horns penetrate the quiet, Bay of Gaspe, still dark..
In their wake, rise her body, rise hillsides breathing.
Forms indistinguishable.
A narcissus ready to open,
she offered herself until petals began to fall away.
The smell of her skin with mine, becoming indistinguishable.
Passion greater than senses mixed into languid sounds of early morning.
For little more than a girl, I have traveled the unaware.
Lulled by the late sunrise,
Once more, to slip graciously into her warmth.
She whispers gently, strongly accented "Finish your job".
Road weary, frostbitten, sleepless, yet, her taste entices me.
Smooth dark hair pressed against my face.
Finally she lets me drift away, gratefully.
Rising, she lights a fire for Norman.
Lizbet, satisfied, became our common language.
The silence was understanding.
Their day began.
I sleep, lulled by the late sunrise.
Passion greater than senses mixed into languid sounds of early morning.
JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski
June 15, 2009
12.4.10
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