Simona Solomon

the wanton song

unloved bodies have a tremble in them

like that of billions of drums

beating low-key on a deserted

African country road

the female joke

laughs at all the male jokes

like a whore

her chest raises up at times

so you could see the plentitude

of her attempts to be liked

I wish I did not see this. Not ever.

I wish every cell would respond 

to the call of early spring 

and fully blossom, like that woman’s chest.

sun sets over the savannah

a lioness is playing with her prey.

out of love.

the unspoken

we are forever imprisoned by 

the unspoken, he said to me

telepathically. There is a spot

where my vowels would like 

to touch you. lick your youth. 

so miserably lonely, you and I.

so darn mute & wanting.

the onion moon,

the moon that peels off into layers

sneaks up on me from a bunch of tree tops

round like your chin

sneaking up on me 

every time like clockwork

from your goatee hairs

smells like love out here.

In the open air, bad music is playing 

but we don’t care. We hear our chests

sighing and breathing forth

to embrace the scent of dry vine leaves

hanging down from the rusted rack 

where they’ve been stretched

and then entangled

I wanna be free. I wanna be free 

of your hands reaching to grab mine

into forever. I wanna breathe you in

and breathe you out with my belly.

Tongue populates my silence

into sweet wine moisture 

wrapping up

she opens the door enrobed in fluttering see-through nightgown

and bare feet, she’s just learned her daughter has become a woman

maybe sometime last night, between her phone calls to new boyfriend

Buzz and those to ex husband Barry – the latter has asbestos memories

in his lungs, she never lets me smoke in his car

we’re discussing it over dinner;

the southern cuisine always puts me in the mood for talking

so do the southern belles, more belle than anywhere else

blond curls prodigious breasts Ruby Rose lips

I’m recounting someone tried to jump my under aged friend

down at the Shell gas station earlier today while I was getting my

cinnamon buns heated up; I’d forgotten my Benson & Hedges

on the counter, Rui reminded me I loved bear claws

I should get some

and there she was, turning him on;

I wish I had told her more than just Get lost but one always says

too little under the circumstances she looked 40 and outta this world.

I also got me a nice Cherokee handbag & matching shoes today, sent

a City-By-Night type postcard back home, got a gun license. 

In a histrionic way I let my succumbed self ramble on

noticing that certain non-virginal glow in her daughter’s eyes

while flipping through the channels; MaryJo feels like painting

she’s somewhere down in Florida right now with the everglades

we’re having screwdriver after screwdriver by the pool

she recites for me a poem from Buzz engraved in her heart

Barry is dying; her pound rescued mixed breed doggy jumps in my lap

life is a pleasant evening looking at how blue waters reflect in her eyes

I’d take a dive into her romance gone bad situation

but I’ll save my smart remarks for later.