A Kind of Lust

It’s August.

September’s on the way.

This is the time

when she weighs

herself down

with lists, classes, meetings

chores have-tos and

should-dos.

A kind of lust

Has come in.

The sea wants

to carry her away

to a foreign country.

With or

without her family.

With or

without saying

Good-bye.

With or

without coming back.

No thought of returning now-

only flight.

A kind of lust,

so hard to resist.

But resisted, oppressed.

Desire.

She doesn’t know why

it has to be this way.

Or at least why

it has been this way.

Part of her is already gone.

There is a vacancy in her

face and

in her body.

She is

turning, like the leaves,

toward the sinking sun.

The draw to follow him

down.

Down to the

south.

Italy, France, Spain

Or Africa.

There.

Where the sun

never stops kissing his Earth

kisses her to death.

Desire.

Desire to walk

down crumbling stone streets

wearing high heals

which click and echo off the

ancient, mumbling walls

lined with old women in black and

children who stay up late.

Desire to hold orange blossoms

in her hand

And feel her own dress

swing and brush her legs.

To hear the voices of the men

smoking on their apartment

balconies.

The music

drifting from somewhere

just ahead.

The smells

pressing in.

Heavy, thick lust.

To feel the men wanting her.

Desire for all of them.

To abandon all notions

of right and wrong or

consequence.

The half-asleep mistiness of all of it.

A far-away question

floats by,

She doesn’t

know

How this

will

turn

out.

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