Island Girl
You make love quietly, worried your teenage children
will hear us, but the music that you make
salsas all the way outside.
The ancestral island rhythm of your hips
and the tropical fire of your lips
blossom in the riptide.
The pyramids tremble, the natives
in our blood are pounding drums,
the fires are burning history
right up to our fingernails,
and then subside.
We lie there in the dark,
our glowing embers flickering orange.
The Easter Island heads are toppled over
at the foot of your bed.
6 comments:
This is just one opinion, but for me, the poem starts with stanza two. It grabs my attention from there on out and the images are vivid and fresh. A good write.
You might be right about that first stanza.Thanks.
If so, move it to the second stanza, so that it is the 2nd. I'd hate to see it go.
Thanks Pris and Lorna.I think it flows better now.
Oh yes...I like it this way! Good one!
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